Diagon Venus
by tamlane
Summary: Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration. HGBZ
1. Writer's Block

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspriation.

**A/N: **The is the pre-Half Blood Prince fanon characterization of Blaise Zabini.

_**Diagon Venus  
**_**Chapter 1 – Writer's Block**

_His hand went to her shoulder, almost cautiously. Her long, thick hair was in the way, but he brushed it aside, a harsh fever in his fingertips as they made contact with the pale skin of her neck. She gasped slightly at his tentative touch. She wanted to close her eyes, but somehow she could not tear them away from the deep pools of navy blue that stared back at her so ruthlessly. He was closer now, his lips nearly grazing her earlobe as he whispered softly to her... "Let's get out of here."_

Hermione Granger sat alone in the library, her small, thin hands stained with ink and her wrist aching as she whipped these lines from her quill.

God, she was good at this.

It was a funny thing. She had always considered herself to be far too practical for romance of any sort. Granted, the closest she had ever come to being on the receiving end of such advances had been with Victor Krum, but she totally disregarded that entire relationship. Sure, it had provided her with a few awkward snogs and melodramatic conversations. But it had been nothing like_ real_ romance.

She was now well into her sixth year at Hogwarts. It was the year between OWLs and NEWTs, and for once in her life, she was actually bored. She had read nearly every book in the library at that point, and nothing seemed to challenge her anymore. Even S.P.E.W., despite its small but enthusiastic group of supporters, was not enough to keep her occupied. Furthermore, Harry and Ron seemed content to pass the year in idle, meaningless Quidditch talk and very immature games of Exploding Snap. Harry was not facing any major crises or death threats at the moment, and Ron still had the emotional capacity of a slug. She couldn't really blame them for being such completely uninteresting individuals. They were bored, too.

It all gave her time to unwind a bit, and she felt a certain distant relief.

She remembered the morning she had first seen the advertisement. She was having breakfast as usual in the Great Hall. Harry and Ron were divulging in detailed murder fantasies involving Snape, and she was flipping through the Daily Prophet. This had become quite the routine. She often read it from cover to cover, carefully searching for clues as to Voldemort's latest schemes. After all, Harry was too impatient to do this, and someone had to keep an eye out for him.

Then, buried amongst ads for Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and mail order forms for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, she had spotted the call for entries.

**_WITCH WEEKLY_ IS PROUD TO SPONSOR THE "DIAGON VENUS" ANNUAL SHORT-STORY COMPETITION!**

"Diagon Venus?" she had repeated to herself with a chuckle, almost choking on her orange juice. Damn. She felt compelled to read on.

_Are you a restless housewife with tales of romantic fancy buried in your piles of parchment? Do you write steamy stories of passion for a hobby? _Witch Weekly_ is hosting a call for entries in their annual short-story competition. In 20,000 words or less, describe your most intimate encounter. Each entry will be judged on the following criteria: plot and character development, creativity, originality, believability, and passionate but tasteful detail. A winner will be announced by 30 November. Grand prize is 100 galleons, publication in _Witch Weekly,_ and a six-month contract to write a serialized monthly fictional romance column which pays 200 galleons per story. Entries should be owled no later than 31 October and sent to _Witch Weekly,_ 69 Diagon Alley, London, England._

31 October. This gave her exactly 2 weeks. As it turned out, she had only needed one night alone in her dormitory. She described the events between Victor and herself in the most romantic detail she could imagine. Obvious revisions had to be made to the actual content of the tale. For one thing, they must be older, and their names must be different. His rescue of her from the merpeople in the Second Task became a daring rescue from a burned and sinking ship. The Yule Ball became an enchanted evening at the Minister's Gala, with all eyes on her, of course. And Witch Weekly wanted "passionate but tasteful detail," so she had been forced to use her imagination on a lot of the specifics.

Nonetheless, she had written the entire thing in one night, the words spilling from her quill effortlessly. She aptly entitled it "Intimate Encounters of a Darker Nature." The only remaining problem was to invent a pseudonym for herself. There was no way under Jupiter she would use her real name. This was quite a task, she soon discovered; it had been easier to write the story than to give herself a name.

_Rowena,_ she thought, thinking of Ravenclaw's founder. But what about a last name? Unfortunately, "Lockhart," her obvious first choice, did not carry such a great connotation these days. She thought of all the last names of people in her class, but even then, it was just too close to home for her comfort. She finally decided to make up a surname, and she laughed out loud when it came to her.

Ravvish. Spelled with 2 Vs. _Rowena Ravvish. _Perfect.

She owled the story the next day.

And she won. Contract and everything.

Which caused her to realize that she was in a very odd situation. She was now a romance columnist for Witch Weekly. No, she was a 16-year-old _virgin_ romance columnist for Witch Weekly. With writer's block.

During the entire month of December, therefore, she racked her brain endlessly for ideas. Her first story was due by 15 January. She began to panic. Christmas holidays would give her ample time to write, but what on earth would she write about? As always, she had begun with a trip to the library on an icy evening in early December.

Unfortunately, the library at Hogwarts did not have a plethora of non-fiction relating to the art of writing romance. She did come across a book entitled the_ Kama Sutra_ in the Muggle Studies section. It had proven to be perhaps a bit too informative. She thumbed through the pages slowly, secretly wondering if Madame Pince had not made a mistake by shelving such a book. The illustrations were—well, _graphic_ seemed to be an appropriate description, if not the understatement of the century. She turned the book sideways and upside-down, thinking the printer must have made a mistake with the binding. No matter how she looked at it, however, it just did not seem possible for human beings to contort themselves into such positions.

She thrust the book back on the shelf, convinced that she had no business at all looking at it. Besides, it gave her no ideas on how to start a serialized romance column. All it did was make her blush slightly and marvel at the sticky moisture forming between her legs.

She hated it, but she knew what she had to do. She approached the reference desk cautiously. It seemed miles away. Madame Pince was loudly tutting over what appeared to be a long parchment of unreturned books.

"Miss Granger," Madame Pince said brightly as she approached the desk. "How nice to see you! If only half of the students at Hogwarts had your—conscientiousness—my job would be so much easier."

Hermione gave her a weak smile.

"What is it, my dear?" Madame Pince asked softly, obviously noting Hermione's nervous expression. "You look rather...piquant. I promise I'll have that book on Ancient Runes you've been asking for by the end of the week..._if I have to track the bastard down myself."_

She muttered the last part of her promise beneath her breath. Hermione stood there transfixed, barely noticing.

"Madame Pince, do you have any Muggle fiction?" she spat out suddenly, the words running together.

"Fiction?" Madame Pince asked curiously. "Miss Hermione Granger, asking me for _fiction?"_

"Just a bit of light reading, you know," Hermione mumbled, "for the holidays."

"Of course, my dear," she replied, immediately pulling a long, narrow drawer out of her card catalogue and thumbing through it passionately. "What do you like? Adventure? Science fiction? Mystery? Romance?"

A wave of relief flooded over Hermione like a calming charm. She had been dreadfully afraid that "romance" would not be one of the categories so willingly offered by Madame Pince.

"The latter," Hermione answered with another demure smile.

"Ah, yes," Madame Pince replied. Hermione thought she saw something of a twinkle in the beady eyes behind the spectacles. "Romance. A very popular genre among girls of your age. And one of my favorites, as well."

Hermione blinked. She could not believe she was having this conversation with a woman who normally lurked around whispering sharp orders.

"One of my very favorite pieces of romantic literature is Brontë's _Wuthering Heights. _I find Heathcliffe to be so disturbed and compelling. Of course, if you wanted something a little more...descriptive," Madame Pince said as she eyed Hermione cautiously, "you might try some D.H. Lawrence. _Lady Chatterley's Lover,_ perhaps?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "And where might I find it?"

"In the fiction section, dear, under L. It's back in the corner, behind Muggle Studies."

"Thank you," Hermione responded, not wasting any time in heading in that general direction.

She crept towards the fiction section quietly and shyly. It was new territory. The dusty shelves rose to the ceiling, with long, musty rows of books spilling the sent of thousands of searching hands into the dim, heavy air. For pity's sake, it was just a book. She normally worshipped books. They had certainly never inspired such butterflies in her before.

She passed the shelves marked "Aa-Ch," then "Ci-Eu," then "Ev-Fr." She was getting closer to the Ls, and her footprints were getting steadily more quiet and careful. She stopped abruptly at the shelf marked "Hy-Le." Looking down, she noticed that the side she stood in front of ended in "Jordan."

_It's the next shelf, _she thought to herself. She felt a rush of anticipation. She placed her fingers on the far end of the shelf and peeked around it feverishly.

The row was far from deserted, as she had expected it to be.

Quite the contrary.

Two figures were writhing against each other in the not-so-faraway distance. The dominant figure was a boy—a very tall boy—with black curls sweeping across his olive cheeks. The figure beneath him, that of a raven-haired girl, was barely visible. He had her pressed against the shelf as though he was a leaden weight in motion. His lips were at the base of her neck, his tongue circling the hollow between her collarbones. His long-fingered hands were grasping at her hips, dragging them up and down against his lower torso. They appeared to be fully clothed, but her head was thrown back against the books behind her, and her legs were wrapped around him, her body grinding against him as though she was going mad.

"Padma," he moaned, his voice wild and husky.

Hermione quietly retreated, her heart thumping wildly in her chest and her breaths coming in quick, violent rasps in her throat. She felt like she had been stung in the brain by a particularly nasty doxy. She slowly backed away and then broke out into a sprint as dulcetly as she could manage. She darted past the reference desk, not even stopping to heed Madame Pince, who was softly demanding, "My dear, didn't you find what you were looking for?"

She slammed through the double doors of the library, barely feeling the movements of her own legs. She ran as fast as she could down the corridor, her bag slapping against her hip and that three-second image of unbridled passion streaming through her mind like hot poison.

She did not stop until she reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Password?" came the familiar voice.

"Amore divina," Hermione gasped, her whole body shaking with her effort to breathe.

It was only then that Madame Pince's question hit her, and the answer was deliciously obvious. She had definitely found what she was looking for.


	2. The Fiction Section

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**A/N: **This chapter (as well as most of the rest of this fic) is intended for a mature audience. It's a romance.

_**Diagon Venus  
**_**Chapter 2 – The Fiction Section**

_Some kinds of love__  
Marguerita told Tom  
__like a dirty French novel__  
the absurd courts the vulgar  
__and some kinds of love__  
the possibilities are endless__  
and for me to miss one__  
would seem to be groundless._

--Lou Reed

Blaise Zabini awoke promptly at his usual 5:15am. The sooner he awoke, the sooner he could begin imbibing coffee like it was going out of style. He immediately poured himself a cup from the coffee-maker on his bedside table. The coffee-maker, equipped with a clever alarm-slash-instant-brewer, had been a gift from Dobby, the Malfoys former house-elf, and he could no longer imagine life without it. Blaise had known Dobby for years from weekend trips to the Malfoy Manor as a child, and he couldn't be happier that Dobby had finally been freed from the bastardly likes of Lucius Malfoy, even if it _was_ Harry Potter who had freed him. He remembered hearing stories from Dobby that made his skin crawl when he was young.

He drank his first cup quickly, even though it was hot enough to scald the tongue of Lucifer himself. As he was pouring himself a second cup, he allowed his mind to wander to the events of the previous evening.

Padma Patil.

_Who would have known?_ he thought with a lazy smirk. Merlin, she had been so soft and brown. And she had been so wet that he could actually feel it through their clothing.

If everything continued as planned, Padma would be his fourth. Or maybe his fifth. There was still that hazy, nasty little incident involving firewhisky, which he nauseously thought might have something to do with Millicent Bulstrode. All he knew was that since his fifth year at Hogwarts, life had been very good to him, hormonally speaking. He had hit a massive growth spurt shortly before his fifth year, and now even Malfoy was getting jealous about the action he was getting.

Up until that point, he had been dreadfully quiet and had felt ultimately inferior. Who wouldn't feel inferior, when Draco Malfoy had chosen to align himself with those brainless idiots, Crabbe and Goyle, over his childhood friend? He guessed he had just been too shy. He had never been much of a talker. His father had trained him early on that it was a great weakness to let other people know what you were thinking. So instead of trying to fit in, he had quietly concentrated on his studies, desperate to make his mark somehow. And it had almost worked. He was second in his class.

Granger, of course, was first, and he hated her for it. What a bloody know-it-all.

Blaise's transformation must have happened slowly, though it had seemed very sudden to him. He remembered waking up one Saturday morning before his fifth year and glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at him was nearly unrecognizable. He was taller—nearly six-foot-three to be exact—and his Italian heritage had begun to manifest itself in his broad shoulders and his thick, black eyebrows and his unruly locks of curly black hair. He remembered staring at himself, wondering what the hell had happened. But he really hadn't given it much thought.

Not until he was back at Hogwarts, at least.

All of a sudden, girls seemed to whisper about him when he walked down the hall. It was very, very strange at first, until he realized that they weren't looking at him like a freak of nature. Not at all. They were looking at him like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher's shop. But he had still felt like that quiet, misplaced, scrawny little boy—like nothing but the last name on every list. He had always felt like an afterthought, particularly next to Malfoy.

Nearly a year and a half later, having just turned seventeen and facing his Apparition exams, it seemed like he couldn't beat them off with a stick. Girls followed him shamelessly. They sent him owls that made him blush and crooned over him as he made his way to the dungeons for Potions class. And being the Slytherin that he was, he had never thwarted a single advance, silently taking advantage of any opportunity that presented itself. If for no other reason, he did it to make Malfoy—reigning Slytherin sex god—cringe with jealousy.

He had learned a lot about women, too. He had learned exactly how they wanted to be touched and kissed. He knew instinctively what turned him on—it didn't take much, after all—and he had learned quickly through trial-and-error what turned women on. They seemed to want someone who was quiet yet dominating, gentle yet forceful. He had no qualms about obliging them, especially when they threw themselves at him so mercilessly. It was just all too easy.

And then there was bloody Granger.

She seemed oblivious to him, making him feel once again like nothing but an afterthought. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to get her to notice him. Not that he _wanted_ her to notice him. It just drove him crazy that she alone seemed immune to his sudden charms. The only things she cared about, as far as he could tell, were Arithmancy and Harry bloody Potter. It frustrated him to no end. But it didn't stop him from getting his kicks elsewhere.

Padma Patil.

When she had approached him in the library, he had been very absorbed. He hated to admit it, but Muggle Studies was kicking his arse. They were studying Late Gothic Painting, and even though he was half-French and half-Italian, he found himself utterly confused. If you'd seen one _Madonna Enthroned,_ then you'd seen them all, he reasoned. He had been flipping through art history textbooks most of the evening, desperate to pass his exam on the following day. Granger had dropped the class after third year, but he still felt the spirit of her competitiveness driving him, nearly strangling him.

As he sat there quietly, his thick brow furrowed, pondering the subtle differences in the painting styles of Duccio and Cimabue, a low but lilting voice addressed him from over his shoulder.

"Blaise, isn't it?" the voice asked somewhat warily.

He turned around abruptly, somewhat surprised. It was late, and he had thought that the library was nearly deserted. He had seen Granger come in earlier, but there were many times late at night when Granger and he were the only souls to be found in the library.

He propped one long arm on the back of his chair and indifferently observed the owner of the musical voice. It certainly wasn't Granger. This was a meager little girl, and lovely to say the least. Her coffee-and-cream-colored skin caught the light in an intriguing sort of way, and long, straight piles of black hair cascaded over her small shoulders. Her black eyes stared intensely down upon him.

"That's right," he answered simply with a nod.

She giggled slightly.

He hated it when girls giggled.

"I'm Padma Patil," she offered. He could see her hands twisting nervously in front of her—another thing he despised about teenage girls. He managed to look entirely uninterested.

"Ravenclaw," she continued, making a small gesture towards the patch on her robes.

"Uh-huh," he mumbled.

"I see you here all the time," she said. "You must really like to study."

He shrugged silently.

"Of course, you're always lurking about over here in the darkest corner, trying to blend in with the scenery, I guess. You do it quite well."

"A survival mechanism," he replied blandly. He saw her jump uneasily as his eyes traced the contour of her robes. "Though it would appear that my efforts have been in vain. After all," he said in a whisper, a very small smile crossing his lips, "you spotted me."

He watched in amusement as she tried to keep her knees from giving out on her. He had no idea why girls felt compelled to act like melting steel in his presence. He just could not understand his obvious appeal. In this case, perhaps, it was because of the subtly suggestive way in which he was gazing at her perky breasts. Or maybe it was because he had spoken more than three words in a row, and it surprised her. Either way, he found that it didn't quite bother him. On the contrary, he kind of liked the hungry look in her coal-black eyes.

"Yes, well... I was wondering if you could help me," she muttered, her cheeks reddening.

He sat there silently. He knew what was coming next, but he felt a certain bestial satisfaction in watching little girls stutter.

"Y-you see," she went on recklessly, "t-there's this, um, b-book in the fiction section. I can't seem to reach it."

His tiny smile suddenly became an outright smirk—a trick he had learned from watching Malfoy's interaction with the opposite sex.

"That's what the footstools are for, Miss Patil," he answered, his voice deep and silky.

He knew that it was very evil of him to tease her this way. He couldn't help it. A very sinister part of him wanted to hear her beg. He wanted to hear her voice plead for him as unmistakably as her body was pleading—her hands twisting, her knees weak and trembling, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"I just thought—,"

Her voice stopped abruptly. She obviously had no comeback in mind. She bowed her head, looking highly embarrassed.

He gave in. No matter how he tried, he just could not be _that _evil.

He slowly rose from his seat, watching her eyes widen as he drew his long body up to its full, towering height. The top of her head barely reached his breastbone. He smiled as she looked straight into his chest and gasped. He raised his hands to his hair and sifted his fingers through it, pushing the curly locks out his profanely blue eyes.

"Shall we?" he asked.

She wasted no time. She took him firmly by the hand and led him quickly towards the long rows of tall shelves behind the Muggle Studies section. He inhaled deeply as they went. There were few things in the world that he loved more than the smell of old books. They made his skin ache with pleasure, the way he could just feel the fragrance of the thousands of eager hands that had plucked through those ancient pages.

When they reached the middle of the section, she dragged him between the rows, scanning the very top row determinedly as she paced forward. He watched her move ahead of him, her long, black hair swaying in motion with her hips, the fruity vanilla perfume of her shampoo wafting about her as she walked. It smelled very sensual in combination with the smell of the books. He found himself slightly aroused—more so, perhaps, than he wanted to admit.

She stopped at once and stared up, the dark column of her neck craning back to look for the book and her miniature body rising up on her toes.

"That's it there," she announced softly, pointing upwards. "D. H. Lawrence. The one with the burgundy and gold spine."

He chuckled beneath his breath. At one time during his fourth year, he had read Lawrence almost obsessively. His favourite had been _The Rainbow._ He had felt so intimately related to one of the main characters, feeling the man's hopeless frustration as though it was his own.

But it wasn't _The Rainbow_ that Padma Patil was requesting. He knew exactly which book she wanted, and he decided to make quite a spectacle out of retrieving it for her. That's what she wanted, and he knew it.

She turned around to face him and gulped back a startled whimper when she realized that he was not looking up at the shelf, but rather down at her. He was suddenly extremely interested, though he was still trying to present himself in a subtly indifferent manner. He pierced her eyes with his own, something intense stirring in the pools of dark blue. He watched her squirm a bit uneasily. He tried to discern her intentions, but he found that he didn't have to try too hard. She was unmistakably looking at him as though she wanted to rip his robes off right there in the library.

Another tiny smirk played across his mouth as he leaned in closer to her. He could feel her breathing quickly, her chest rising and falling in delicate little movements.

He was nearly on top of her now, reaching one long arm up slowly towards the top shelf. His other arm went to the shelf just above her shoulder, bracing his tall body as he leaned forward. His fingers traced the spine of the book cautiously, but his eyes never left hers.

"Lawrence, huh?" he whispered. "What on earth inspired you to read Lawrence?"

She swallowed heavily but did not answer. He rather thought she didn't have the ability to speak at _all_ at the moment. It didn't matter. He knew the answer. Teenage girls, he had come to realize, were actually far more lewd than they let on—reading romance novels and whispering excitedly amongst themselves about things he'd never thought he would hear in public.

His long, thin body jerked slightly as he tugged the book from in between its neighbors. Once again, she took a sharp breath of air. He had her pinned there, and she knew it. In fact, she seemed to like it.

He backed away just a little bit, holding the book up in front of her almost menacingly. She wasn't looking at the book. She was staring at his face, her eyes roaming down the aristocratic jawline towards his neck.

It required a great amount of self-control to keep from outrightlaughing at her. She was so _obvious._ He thought it might be safe to go further.

He saw her reach for the book, and just before her tiny fingers grasped onto it, he dropped it, a definite full-blown smile now appearing on his face. The book thudded onto the carpeted floor at her feet. He leaned towards her again, this time bowing his head and positioning his lips very close to her ear.

"I'll get it," he whispered.

She was very quiet and very still.

He bent down slowly, the tip of his nose lightly grazing the front of her robes. They also had a hint of vanilla fragrance to them. It must have been her perfume. Once he was crouching in front of her, he did not even bother with the book. His head was level with her knees. Very slowly, he parted the front of her robes, exposing a pair of short, thin, brown legs. She was wearing a navy blue skirt that hung just above her knees. He lifted his hand and moved it in the direction of the lower part of her leg. He stopped just before his fingertips made contact with her skin, and he looked up at her, not in the least bit surprised to find her glaring back down at him breathlessly. He looked at her leg, and then at his own outstretched hand, and then back up at her wide eyes.

"May I?" he asked in a very modest tone of voice.

"Please do," she replied helplessly.

He could almost see her shaking, but she had given him the go-ahead.

He brushed his thumb against her knee and then gently cupped her small calf muscle in his hand. Her skin was so smooth, so soft. She threw her head back, looking like she wanted to moan. He smiled at her reaction. He had not even reached her thigh yet. It was absolutely amazing, he thought, what the simplest of touches could do to a person when they were already so electrified by expectation.

He slowly rose to his feet, the pretense of picking up the book no longer necessary. As he moved, he dragged his fingers gently upward beneath her skirt along the outside of her leg. She was now nearly panting with excitement. He was standing upright, but his knees were still bent slightly so that he could look directly into her face. She looked back at him, her black eyes nearly burning with emotion. He silently regarded the look on her face as his hand ever-so-deftly circled around to the inside of her thigh. He watched her fight back another whimper. They were, after all, in the middle of the library, and they certainly didn't want to attract the attention of Madame Pince.

All at once, she grabbed his head in her petite hands and slammed her mouth against his. Her tongue went in search of his almost immediately.

This was the only thing about sex that he didn't like. Kissing. It was more intimate than even the act of sex itself, he thought.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away. "No," he whispered, a solemn expression crossing his face. "Why would you kiss me on the lips? I don't think you even_ like_ me."

"S-sorry," she stuttered, looking highly affronted.

His hands suddenly went down to her hips, grabbing them gently yet securely. He picked her up off the floor. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist.

"It's okay," he replied, his lips tracing her hairline down to her ear. "I just don't like kissing on the lips. But I don't mind kissing you _here,_" he said, pressing his lips against her earlobeâ, "or _here,_" he said even more softly, his mouth now plucking at her neck, "or _here,_" he continued, placing a trail of kisses down the line of her V-neck jumper.

Her hips were now moving intuitively up and down against his torso, her arched pelvis bucking wildly against him. He knew it would not take long. He ran his tongue in circles around the base of her neck and mumbled her name. He could feel her body tightening. And then it hit her. She clawed at his shoulders and pulled at his hair. Her lips were dry from her quick, frenzied breathing. She was trembling violently, her whole body thrashing against him in waves of release.

He lowered her back down to the floor and made sure she could stand before he released her hips from his hands.

"Oh... my... God," she whispered.

He grinned.

"Enjoy yourself?" he asked.

"Immensely," she panted. "But what about you?"

He reached down at last and scooped up the book that she had used as an excuse to get him alone. He held it in front of her, again sweeping his hair from his eyes, and then he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Maybe next time," he answered, and then he turned and walked away.

And now, sitting on his four-poster-bed, listening to Goyle snore and working on his third cup of coffee, he let himself fantasize about that next time. He would give her ample time to think about the orgasm that he'd given her, and then he would pounce when she least expected it. If she turned out to be like the other three (or four?) girls, she would practically beg him to make love to her. He chuckled to himself. He knew it was wrong. He knew that it was cold and merciless of him. But he didn't care, and neither did the girls, it seemed. In fact, _they _were always the ones to dump _him_ once they had what they wanted.

For those few precious days, however, he was a complete god. He was totally in control of their minds and their bodies. He didn't even care that Draco now jealously had begun to refer to him as the Slytherin "slut-puppy."

He was good at it.


	3. Inspiration

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**A/N: **Hermione might seem a little OOC...wait, who am I kidding? She is completely OOC, but I couldn't very well have her knitting hats for house-elves forever. Enjoy the steamy scene at the end of this chapter. It's going to be the last of its kind for awhile.

_**Diagon Venus  
**_**Chapter 3 – Inspiration**

_My candle burns at both ends;  
It will not last the night;__  
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—  
It gives a lovely light._

_--"First Fig" by Edna St. Vincent Millay_

Hermione's heart was racing. She crept between rows of bookshelves in an old, musty library. She didn't think it was the Hogwarts library, but she couldn't be sure. She was reaching up for a book, the very tips of her toes digging into the carpet and her whole body stretching up, up, and further up towards the burgundy spine. She couldn't quite reach it. She stretched even further, but now a very long, olive-colored arm was on top of hers, and the hand of that arm was effortlessly pulling at the book, its fingers laid delicately upon her hand. She gasped wildly and whipped around. She found herself staring into a long, thin chest. She looked up and saw a broad, brownish jawbone, obscured by mounds of black curls. She closed her eyes, and then he had her by the hips, lifting her and teasing her. She didn't know what was happening, but it did not seem half bad. She heard Madame Pince's loud, pesky whisper and turned her head to the end of the aisle. Madame Pince was shaking a copy of _Wuthering Heights _at her, and she had a very strange expression on her face. "Romance, my dear," she said, "is perfectly naturally for a girl of your age."

She awoke with a start and nearly bounded from her bed. The bed curtains swung about with her sudden movement, and a mess of parchment went flying to the floor like delicate, inky leaves. She was still fully dressed. She had no idea what time it was, or what on earth had happened. The dorm room was completely dark. The last thing she remembered was pulling the curtains on her four-poster bed and writing in a feverish frenzy as though her life depended on it. She breathed heavily and tried to make out the hands of the clock on her bedside table.

_5:45am._

She had slept all night, but she felt as though she had just gotten into bed a few moments ago. She stood there for a moment, the vivid dream toying with her barely conscious mind.

She flipped on a lamp, her eyes squinting and watering from the sudden brightness. She looked over at her bed and noticed with embarrassment that she had spilled her bottle of ink all over the crimson covers. As everything began to click into place, she became frantic again. Money. She had to find some Muggle money and somehow get a copy of_ Lady Chatterley's Lover._ After the previous night, she didn't think she would ever go near the fiction section again.

She ruthlessly flung open the lid of her trunk and began rummaging, tossing heavy books aside as though they were weightless. Socks, ponytail holders, make-up she had never worn. Where was her stash? At any other time, she could have put her fingers on it immediately. But her brain wasn't working; either that or it was working in overdrive. She couldn't tell.

Neatly folded jumpers became crumpled, unruly piles on the floor beside her. Photographs and knick-knacks became darts aimed over her shoulder carelessly. A diary, a Christmas present from a relative that she had never once unlocked, was almost binned in her frustration. But this wasn't the time to be cleaning out and throwing away. She had one purpose in mind, one golden snitch hiding somewhere in the clouds that were her belongings.

And then she found it. The small leather change-purse was slightly obscured among a thick ring of leather belts. She grasped it and held it up to the light, praying that it contained enough funds to suit her present purpose. She opened it slowly, peeking into its dark folds as though she almost expected to find it empty. It was, she thought, perhaps the most crucial moment of the school year so far.

With a muffled squeak, she pulled out what she knew was a 20-pound note, folded in half and then quarters. She stuffed it into the inside pocket of her robe and then sat there for a moment, looking around at the mess she had made. She was in no mood to repack her trunk with her usual meticulous care. She simply grabbed armfuls of the strewn objects and stuffed them back into the trunk any way she could get them in there. The lid would not close. She didn't care.

With the same frantic gusto, she packed her schoolbag, tossing the scattered leaves of parchment on top of the mess inside. She flung it over her shoulder, moaning a bit at its weight. She had to keep going. She did not have time for a bath. She barely had time to think straight. She dashed to her mirror and shrieked at the person staring back at her. The thick, frizzy hair was hanging in wild, tangled lumps over her face and shoulders.

"Hermione!" came a groggy voice from behind her. Lavender was looking at her through a narrow slit in her bed curtains. "What time is it? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she replied, grabbing a ponytail holder from the dresser. She wound her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head and heedlessly secured it. There were still fuzzy brown pieces hanging out at odd angles, particularly down the shoulder that bore the strap of her schoolbag. "No time to talk, Lavender. It's 5:55. Go back to sleep."

She was in the common room in less than five seconds. She practically leapt through the portrait hole and raced down the corridor. Her feet were flying even faster than the night before. She plunged down the staircase to the Great Hall, nearly tripping more than once.

She was almost there.

She turned her head, trying to make out whether or not anyone else was at breakfast yet. But she didn't really care. She was almost flying as she bolted from the last step, and then—

_SMASH._

She was on the floor, helplessly entangled in the body of another student.

"Bloody hell!" yelled his deep voice, more shocked than angry.

Her bag was twisted in his robes, her pieces of parchment flying everywhere from her bag as he struggled to free himself. His long arms thrashed about uselessly, fighting to disengage himself from her.

More startled wrestling and more obscenities resulted from his fight, until he was free at last and on his feet.

She didn't look up. She couldn't look up. Her face burned as though an atomic bomb had just gone off in her head, her temples pounding. She stayed on her knees, grabbing at the parchment pieces and stuffing them back into her bag.

"Damn, Granger!" he roared, now more angry than shocked. "_My coffee!_"

Her curiosity suddenly outweighed her utter humility over the situation. She looked up, though her hands would not cease in their desperate task.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he pleaded.

Zabini. Blaise Zabini. Slytherin. Completely addled and covered in hot coffee.

"What the hell are _you_ doing up so _early?_" she spat back. She couldn't tell at the moment whom she hated most—this monstrous Slytherin idiot or herself.

"I'm always up this early!" he thundered. The black waves of his hair were ruffled about his crimson cheeks. "Why were you _running?_ That's not exactly prefect behavior, is it?"

She wished with every smidgeon of her entire being that she could simply apparate clear across the continent. Instead, she managed somehow to compose herself enough to stand up. And once she was up, she wasted no time.

"Sorry your robes!" she called over her shoulder as she dashed towards the Great Hall.

Why _was _she running? She didn't know. For some reason, she could not _stop _running since her accidental encounter the previous night. She felt like she could jog to London and back before Potions class that morning. She was so inspired.

Then it snapped. It hit her like lightning. She stopped dead in her tracks. The tall body, the curly black hair, the olive skin. She didn't want to believe it, but it was suddenly very clear. _Blaise Zabini._

Her jaw dropped. She whipped around to confirm her theory, but he was gone, probably back to his dorm to change his robes and get another cup of coffee.

She entered the Great Hall, more flustered than ever. There were only a few people there. Millicent Bulstrode was stuffing her mouth idly. Terry Boot had his head crammed in a book. One of the new Gryffindor chasers was poring over diagrams of Quidditch positions. Justin Finch-Fletchley was looking sickeningly perky.

She plopped down at the trio's normal spot at the table and pulled out a piece of parchment. She had a special request, and she was too embarrassed to ask her own mother. She dipped her quill in an ink bottle, took a deep drink of orange juice, and began to write.

_Dear Mrs Weasley,_

_I hope everything is going well for you and Mr Weasley. With any luck, Fred and George are not disturbing the peace too badly with their new shop. Ron is much better at Quidditch now, and he actually seems to be more interested in his studies, if you can believe it. And, of course, he always keeps us laughing, which especially good for Harry right now. Oh, and Ginny has turned out to be quite a beater, I must say. She makes Fred and George look like innocent little angels._

_I have a somewhat unusual favor to ask of you. I've been studying literature recently, namely romantic Muggle fiction. Since you are frequently in London, I was wondering if you could possibly stop into a Muggle bookstore and purchase a few books for me? I am enclosing a twenty-pound note. (That's Muggle money.) If you would be so kind, please pick up a copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ by D. H. Lawrence, as well as the cheapest, trashiest romance novel that you can get your hands on. You can understand why I might be hesitant to ask my own mother to do this for me. She might get the wrong idea. But you are like a second mother to me, and I think you know me well enough to understand that these books are purely for research purposes._

_If this is going to inconvenience you in any way, or possibly embarrass you, then please feel free to return the money to me. I will understand, and no explanation on your part will be necessary. However, I need the books as soon as possible in order to continue my research in a timely fashion. I really hope I'm not putting you out. If there is any change left over, please give it to Mr Weasley to add to his collection of Muggle paraphernalia._

_Thank you for inviting me you-know-where for Christmas holidays. Unfortunately, I am wrapped up in several independent studies at the moment, and I've been quite busy. I am planning on staying at Hogwarts during the holidays to catch up._

_We are all doing well. I know that Ron is rather slack about writing to you. I will stay on him to send you an owl, I promise. Thank you for your help._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

_P.S. Ron doesn't know about this research project. Perhaps we could just keep it between us? Thanks again._

She felt awful. Not only was the letter littered with falsehoods, but she felt really bad about asking Mrs Weasley to go out of her way. Furthermore, she remembered Mrs Weasley having a slightly—_unfavorable_—opinion of her for a while during their fourth year. What was it Ron had called her—a _scarlet woman?_ Yet somehow, deep inside, she had a strange notion that Mrs Weasley would not find her request to be that odd at all. Mrs Weasley knew how level-headed and practical she was. It was a good thing she hadn't seen her lately.

She _had_ to send the letter. It was her only chance.

She folded the parchment up carefully and inserted it into an envelope along with the 20-pound note. She began addressing it, but she realized that she wasn't sure where the Weasleys were residing at the moment. Damn. She would have to ask Ron. She dreaded his inevitable inquiries. But it had to be done.

She tossed the envelope aside and reached into her bag for the messy pile of papers. They were all out of order now, and several of them were streaked and spotted with coffee stains.

Coffee. The fiction section. The long, shaggy, curly black hair. She shuddered all of a sudden. How the hell had she never noticed Zabini before? He was, after all, in three of her classes—Potions, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes. But he was so quiet. He seemed to blend in with his surroundings, despite the fact that he was now nearly a head taller than everyone else. She thought about the way she had slammed into him so unexpectedly—the way his ungodly long arms had thrashed about as he tried to disentangle his robes from hers. She shuddered again, this time a little more noticeably.

But he was so _shy_, she thought. He never said a word to anyone. Rather, he just lurked about like a phantom, watching everyone else. If she hadn't known for a fact that he was extremely good at Arithmancy, she might have even mistaken his looming silence for stupidity.

She couldn't believe it. The way he had grasped at Padma Patil's hips so feverishly, so _expertly._ And Padma had seemed to be enjoying herself very much. When did he learn to do things like that?

A mischievous smile crossed her lips, not unlike the kind she'd seen so many times on Malfoy's pointy little face. She had found the perfect leading man for her series.

Speaking of the devil, she saw him walk into the Great Hall out of the corner of her eye. She glanced up clandestinely, hoping he wouldn't notice. He carried a big, black book bag in one hand and an entire thermos of coffee, she presumed, in the other hand.

Oops! He saw her staring! He shot her a look of utmost loathing and then sat down at the Slytherin table with his back turned away from her.

She shook her head violently, trying to dispel the dirty thoughts that now seemed to be racing through her mind. She had to concentrate on her Potions notes. The only problem was that she couldn't seem to locate them at the moment. She rifled through the pieces of parchment desperately.

"_very strange positions that seemed unearthly,"_ said the first line of one paper. That wasn't what she was looking for.

"_hips moving like a steady pendulum,"_ began another piece of parchment.

UGH! That _definitely_ wasn't what she was looking for. Where were her notes?

"Morning, Hermione," spoke a voice from her left.

She looked up, horrified to see Harry and Ron slouching unenthusiastically towards their usual spot beside her at the table.

She fumbled about nervously, raking the parchment into yet another disorganised pile and plopping _Moste Potente Potions _quickly down on top of it. She flipped it open and stared down idly at a potion for making glamours.

"How long have you been here?" Ron asked half-heartedly.

"Just a few minutes," she lied.

Harry silently plopped down beside her and began to pour himself a bowl of cornflakes.

"Harry, you look horrible!" she exclaimed, noticing the bags under his eyes. "Don't you sleep at all anymore?"

"Hmph," he replied.

Unless the topic was Quidditch, Harry was never talkative or enthusiastic about anything anymore. He just stared about with a glazed look in his eyes. She felt so sorry for him—and extremely worried—but she had no idea how to begin to comfort him.

Ron, however, talked enough for the both of them, though usually his topics of conversation were so mundane and idiotic that she found herself not wanting to pay attention. He still made the occasional sarcastic joke, and Harry would chuckle, but nothing was the same now that Sirius was gone. That was one of the reasons she had flung herself so willingly into the Diagon Venus competition. She needed some type of escape.

"Bloody Potions this morning," Harry mumbled, digging around in his cornflakes without any hint of wanting to eat them.

"Yes, unfortunately," she answered. "And I seem to have misplaced my notes."

Harry looked at her as though to say, _Who are you? And what have you done with Hermione Granger? _But he said nothing.

"I'm telling you," Ron announced, stuffing his mouth with toast, "dropping Potions was the smartest thing I've ever done. Herbology is much less stressful."

"How's it going, anyway?" Hermione asked, sipping on her orange juice.

"It's not too bad," he replied. "Mind you, I was almost strangled by a nasty little sample of Devil's Snare on Monday, but I'd take Devil's Snare over Snape any day. Besides, I've got a deal worked out with Fred and George, you know. I'll grow the plants, and they'll make the potions."

"And does Molly know about your little deal?" she asked disapprovingly.

"I may be slow, Hermione," he said, "but I'm not completely daft, am I?"

He grinned suddenly.

"Merlin, I just _love_ Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays," he said.

She noticed that Harry smiled slightly as well. "What's so great about Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays?" she asked, her gaze moving from one to the other.

"The three Ps," Harry answered softly with a chuckle.

"Three Ps?" she asked.

Ron looked like he might pull a muscle in his face if he smiled any more broadly.

"Yep. _Professor Priscilla Pernicia._"

"Oh," Hermione replied, another reproachful expression on her face. "The new Divination professor."

"And the greatest addition that Dumbledore has ever made to the teaching staff," Ron added with a wink.

"I don't know," Hermione whispered. "There seems to be something a little sinister about her, don't you think?"

"Sinister?" Ron joked. "More like downright _evil._ It should be illegal for a professor to have a body like that. And she seems unusually interested in Harry, too."

"Must be the bloody scar," he answered indifferently.

"Whatever it is," Ron continued, "the lucky bastard is about to get a lot of extra time with her in the North Tower."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"She's volunteered to pick up where Snape left off. You know, with Harry's _Occlumency._"

"Good," Hermione said, lifting her chin up defiantly. "Maybe now you'll take it more seriously. It's really important, Harry. You know that first-hand now that—,"

She stopped. She had definitely not meant to go that far. They had all spent the last six months trying to forget what had happened in the Department of Mysteries.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to. . . I just worry about you. You know that."

Her apology did not seem to faze him anymore than the comment that had inspired it. In fact, he looked completely numb, as usual.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Harry stared down at his breakfast. Ron glared at Hermione as though she was Jezebel incarnate.

Then she remembered the letter to Mrs Weasley.

"Oh, Ron," she said, pulling out the envelope, "where are your mum and dad living right now?"

He looked at her curiously and snatched the envelope from her hand before she could stop him. Thank Merlin she had already sealed it. He carefully inspected the name of the addressee, _Mrs Molly Weasley_, and then looked back up at her.

"Why are you writing to my mum?" he demanded. "You're not giving her reports on my behavior, are you?"

"Why?" she asked, feeling her face turn hot with anger at his accusation. "Feeling guilty about something, Ronald?"

His jaw dropped. He looked like he wanted to hex her, but she spoke before he had a chance to reply. "It's girl talk, Ron. There are some things I'm just too embarrassed to talk to my own mum about."

Now he looked like he wanted to apparate as far away from the table as possible. "Oh," he grumbled, tossing the envelope back across the table as though it contained poison. "They're at Grimmauld Place right now."

"Thank you," she replied bitterly. She addressed the envelope accordingly and packed up her book and her papers. "I'm going to go send this owl before Potions. I'll see you in class, Harry."

"Hmph," he replied.

* * *

Potions class was ruthlessly long and exhausting. Hermione wanted to kick herself for going on about Harry's Occlumency lessons. He was very quiet as he sat next to her, carefully measuring out ingredients and apathetically stirring the brewing potion in his cauldron. There was one good thing about his general mood so far this year. He was silently obsessed with his classes, even Potions. In fact, he had become so fastidious about Potions class that Snape could not find a single complaint to make about his progress. Of course, Snape certainly didn't compliment him on his work. He seemed to simply ignore Harry whenever possible. It was like a New World Order. Hermione barely recognised her best friend anymore. He was quiet and determined. Apparently, he was newly driven by the events of the past year, hungry to learn everything he could so he would be ready when the next confrontation with Voldemort came along.

Hermione wondered when that confrontation would arise. Everything was so quiet. There was a new Minister of Magic, Amelia Susan Bones, and she was infinitely more stable than Fudge. Nearly all of the Death-Eaters were now in Azkaban, thanks to Dumbledore, and Bones had used highly effective experimental Charms to secure the cells, since the Dementors had proven to be so untrustworthy. The entire wizarding world seemed to be enjoying a welcome break from the Dark Arts. The only uneasy feeling came from the knowledge that Voldemort was still out there somewhere. Bellatrix Lestrange had also disappeared.

Hermione never knew whether or not to try to indulge Harry in conversation. He seemed to want to be left alone. Potions class was probably the most excruciating for her, as Ron wasn't there to break the formidable silence. Lucky Ron. Some days, she desperately wished that she was with him in Herbology. Harry was just so _different._ And she could think of absolutely nothing to say that would revive his former spirit. Often, she wanted to scream at him, to shake him silly. Anything to wipe that numb expression off his face.

"Why are you writing to Molly Weasley?" Harry's voice finally said.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, utterly startled by his sudden attempt at a conversation. Her mouth hung open speechlessly.

He looked over at her, a crease forming seriously above the rim of his glasses.

She said nothing.

He observed her carefully, obviously hesitant to continue. At last, he leaned a little bit closer to her and whispered, "You said it was girl talk, and you couldn't talk to your own mum about it. There's nothing wrong with you, is there?"

She had no idea what to say.

"I mean," he went on almost mutely, "you're not. . ._ pregnant _. . . or something like that, are you?"

She almost laughed out loud. Pregnancy. She did not think Harry even knew such things existed.

"Two months," she answered, trying to keep as blank of an expression on her face as possible. "Didn't you hear about my little tryst with Percy in Hogsmeade?"

Harry's jaw was nearly on the floor. She couldn't go on like that, teasing him. Not when he was so serious and humorless.

"Harry," she whispered, "I'm not pregnant." She could not help giggling. "And if I am, then I've unfortunately missed out on the fun part."

He blushed. She was so ecstatic to see any kind of emotion at all on his face that she could have kissed him right there.

"Sorry," he said. "That was a really stupid question, I know." He shrugged his shoulders. "You must think I've gone round the bend. I don't know what to think anymore. If anything happened to you or Ron. . ."

He stopped mid-sentence. Beneath his glasses, she thought she saw his eyes start to mist over. Indeed, she thought. She and Ron were about the only people he had left in the world. She made sure that Snape wasn't looking, and then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"I know, Harry," she whispered.

He stirred his potion idly. She suddenly felt closer to him than any other person on the planet. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and make him sob out loud against her shoulder. Why wouldn't he just cry? He would feel so much better!

"Then what _were_ you writing to Molly about?" he asked again.

"About the holidays," she answered, looking away. "I've been really busy with Ancient Runes." She felt horrible for lying to him. "I don't think I'm going to Grimmauld Place for the holidays. I think I'll stay at Hogwarts."

He looked straight into his cauldron, avoiding her eyes. "I wish _I _didn't have to go to Grimmauld Place," he spat out suddenly. His voice was shaky.

"Harry, you don't have to go."

"No," he replied, "but I suppose I should. Just to keep everyone from worrying about me." His jaw tightened. "Or just to keep them from thinking I'm getting into some kind of trouble." He looked up at her suddenly. "I'm _not,_ you know," he said. "Getting into _trouble,_ that is. You should be _very proud._"

The last part of the statement was almost spiteful. She had no difficulty at all in forgiving him for it.

"Harry," she said, "I'm really, really sorry for making that comment at breakfast. And who am _I_ to be proud of _you?_ You've saved my skin more than once, and you know it."

He looked at her with such sudden relief—such happiness at her understanding—that she nearly burst into tears herself. She was just so glad that he was finally talking.

"So why did you tell Ron it was girl talk?" he asked with a smile.

"Because," she replied with a grin, "that's the quickest way to shut him up, isn't it?"

Harry chuckled.

Snape was upon them at once. He seemed to have come from nowhere, and he smirked down at them with sadistic pleasure. "I hate to interrupt your little amorous interview," he snarled, "but I think it's time you bottle a vial of your potions. Class is nearly finished."

God, how she hated Snape. She noticed with interest that Harry did not protest at all. He simply scooped some of his potion into a bottle, stoppered it, and handed it to the Potions Master, almost defiantly.

"Sorry if it's a little pink," Harry growled. "I think your beetle eyes are slightly past their expiration date."

Snape looked rabid. Hermione wanted to stand up on the desk and start cheerleading.

"I'll make sure to replace them," Snape answered through gritted teeth. He looked like he wanted to pummel Harry into the next century. "And five points from both of you, for flirting when you should be working."

He dashed away, his robes billowing behind him as annoyingly as ever.

Hermione and Harry looked at each other triumphantly. It could have been fifty points each, for all they cared. Hermione thought that Harry's witty criticism of Snape's beetle eyes had been worth a hundred points alone.

They packed their things and started out into the hall.

"Granger!" a deep voice called from behind them.

She whirled around and found Blaise Zabini pacing towards her. She turned quickly back to Harry and found him watching Zabini, one eyebrow raised curiously.

"I'll see you in Charms," Harry mumbled, and then he turned to go.

Why? Why did Harry have to leave her alone all of a sudden? And what the hell did Zabini want with her?

Zabini looked slightly flushed. His thermos was stashed under his arm, and he held a piece of parchment in his right hand. Was he blushing? Was he actually approaching her? She felt her stomach lurch wildly, and she was suddenly glad she hadn't had anything but orange juice for breakfast.

"Look," she began and he paced towards her, "I told you I was sorry about your—OUCH!!!"

He had her by the arm, his fingers digging into her through her robe. He was leading her down the hall, still blushing furiously. He stopped suddenly and thrust the parchment at her. For some reason, he looked very embarrassed.

"You left this in the hall this morning," he whispered. "I just want you to know that I stopped reading once I realised what it was. And believe me, I'll take it to my grave."

She gasped for breath. Surely not. . .?

He was now looking at her very curiously indeed. She couldn't figure out the expression. It was somewhere between amusement and nausea, she thought.

"One thing is for certain," he continued almost mutely. "I'll never look at Potions in the same way again."

He turned around and practically ran from her.

With a dreadfully apocalyptic feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened up the parchment. At the top of the parchment was a list of potions ingredients. Near the bottom there was a very explicit excerpt from her first story for _Witch Weekly._

She was so humiliated that she didn't know what to do. She laughed out loud. After all, it was almost funny.

* * *

Blaise was on his way to one of his favourite classes, Arithmancy. It was the next-to-last class of the day, which made it even better. As usual, he planned to go straight to dinner when he was finished with classes, choke down as much food as he could stomach on his coffee-filled belly, and then head to the library for some well-deserved peace and quiet.

Girls giggled as he strode down the hall, his mind racing. He ignored them. Just as he approached the classroom, however, he found that he could ignore them no longer. A delicate hand tugged at his robe, and he turned around bitterly.

Padma Patil.

She said nothing at all to him. She didn't even giggle, he noted happily. She merely pressed a folded note into his pocket and grabbed him by his necktie. Using her hold on him as leverage, she yanked his face down to hers.

"Read it later," she whispered.

He thought he saw an odd expression flash in her eyes as she turned to walk away. Why did he even care? She wasn't _that_ pretty, after all. But she wanted him so badly. It was obvious. And he liked it.

He entered the classroom as silently as ever and scooted into a seat at the very back. Padma was right about him. He wanted nothing more than to blend in. To his dismay, it had been very difficult to blend in earlier that morning. It was impossible to keep a low profile when one was abruptly knocked to the ground by a distracted female. Damn Granger and her bloody bag, tackling him like that so unexpectedly. The only thing that kept him from being too angry was the fact that it had apparently been a very appalling mistake.

Why did she have to leave that one piece of parchment behind? And even worse, why did he have to pick it up? He felt the words as though they were still right there in front of his eyes. . .

_Her pelvis lashed out at him uncontrollably. His hands grabbed at her hips deftly, hauling them against his long, lean body in steady, maddening motions. Her head flew back against the wall, her entire body crying out to be ravished. . . _

That was just not Grangermaterial. She must have copied those lines from somewhere else. Surely Granger could not spout such absurd fantasies from her own experience. That bushy hair, that self-righteous gleam in her bossy eyes. That complete disregard for the way in which she affected others. No. Those lines were simply not _Granger._

No way. So how did they get onto her Potions notes?

He had been so embarrassed when he returned the parchment to her, and it just wasn't like a Zabini to be embarrassed. Zabinis felt nothing, and if they did, they certainly didn't show it. He should have just kept the notes, as he had battled with himself to do.

And now he had to face her yet again. At any minute, she would be walking through that door, her chin thrust high into the air as always, the little wench. She would ignore him and find a seat in the first row, ravenous to hear every word out of Professor Vector's mouth. She would take notes in her tight, constricted little manner, thinking she was better than everyone else on the planet. She would answer every question with a ruthless thirst to prove herself. She would win twenty points, at least, for Gryffindor before packing her bag and sauntering out of the classroom like she owned the world. She was all too predictable.

He hated her. If only he could best her once. If only he could _once_ get his hand in the air before her, he could prove himself. But what the hell was he doing thinking about Granger when he had a note in his pocket from Padma?

He dug in his pocket until the folded piece of paper reached his fingertips. Should he read it now? Would it get taken away from him when class began? _What did it say?_

His curiosity got the best of him. He unfolded it carefully, glancing around to make sure no one was looking. With any luck, the note would contain the plea that he was waiting for. After all, she had been so eager. He looked down, ready to stuff it back into his pocket at any second.

_Blaise,_

_Thank you for making me look at Lawrence in a whole new light. I would very much like for you to meet me in Greenhouse 3 at midnight tonight._

_Padma_

And she had drawn something at the bottom that appeared to be a winking smiley face.

Well. Greenhouse 3 it would be. He chuckled beneath his breath. It had not yet been twenty-four hours, and she was begging to see him again. It was too soon for his liking, but after the previous night, he was more than anxious to oblige her.

He pocketed the note, a silent, tiny smile on his face.

The smile disappeared immediately as he saw Granger enter the room from the corner of his eye. She strutted to the front of the classroom, just as he had predicted. She threw her bag down on the desk and sighed heavily. Her hair was even wilder now than it had been when she stumbled into him that morning. The cold moisture of the December air teased it into a disorderly pile on the top of her head, the wild frizz sticking out of her loose bun as defiantly as her demeanor.

Against his will, he was forced to remember the look on her face that morning. He didn't think he had actually ever _seen_ her face before. Normally, it was so obscured by hair and grimaces that he barely noticed it. But when he had looked into her face that morning, it had been so red, so full of emotion. With her hair up, he could actually see her cheekbones and her mocha-coloured eyes. They were soft, yet somehow electric.

Whoa. Wait a minute. What was he thinking? There was nothing "electric" about it. She had obviously just stumbled out of bed. In fact, she could have done with a bath and a change of clothes, come to think of it. But there had been something different about her. She had been in such a frantic rush. _Why?_

His heart nearly leapt from his chest and did a somersault across the desk. She was looking at him. She was unmistakably turned in her seat and looking straight at him. Her eyes were boring caverns into his behind the loose strands of frizzy curls. And then. . . could it be possible? . . .

She _smirked_ at him.

He bowed his head, suddenly more interested in Arithmancy than ever.

* * *

Blaise started getting ready for his "date" around 11:00. Most of the rest of the Slytherin house had already gone to bed. As they were settling down to sleep, he was growing more and more restless. He slipped into the shower and felt the thick steam toy with his heightened senses. The hard jets of hot water soaked his hair, and he just stood there for a moment without moving, allowing the water to cascade over his head and trickle down his shoulders. His mind went comfortably blank.

After a few minutes, he snapped back to reality. Did he even _want_ this? It was difficult to tell anymore. It was becoming little more than a careless ritual. Girls would approach him, and he would play along almost mindlessly. He would shower and dress, trying to psyche himself up. He would meet them, their eyes aglow with desire. He would make love to them with a heated passion that was almost foreign to him. He wasn't even sure he really felt it. He would bask in the afterglow of his actions until he became uncomfortable and restless. And then he would get dumped the following day.

Was it worth it?

He didn't care. At that very moment, as he stood beneath the hot stream of water feeling pensive, he could just imagine Padma. She was probably in her dormitory doing the same thing. She was probably soaking herself in a hot, steamy bath, bathing herself in that unearthly vanilla soap that had driven him crazy. And she would sit and brush those armfuls of black hair, adoring herself in her mirror. She would pinch her cheeks to bring a spike of fuchsia colour into them. She would slip into her sexiest knickers, probably already imagining what it would be like for him to rip them off of her. She would dress, and she would wait. She would think, and she would wait. She would look at herself in the mirror about forty times. And she would wait.

When he was finished showering, he toweled off and dressed, his brain still somewhat torn. He put on a pair of loose-fitting black corduroy trousers, wisely omitting the underwear, and proceeded shirtless to the mirrored dresser in his dormitory room. Again, that odd stranger looked back at him, with shoulders too broad and a chest too firm to belong to _him._ He ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to smooth the shoulder-length waves, and pondered the mystery of his own reflection.

"I see you're whoring yourself again," came a lazy drawl from the four-poster bed behind him.

He said nothing, and he certainly did not bother to turn around. He stuffed his bare feet into his loafers. He didn't care how cold it was. There were few things more idiotic than having sex in nothing but one's socks, and he did not anticipate that he would have time to remove them once things got going properly.

"What does this make, anyway," the indolent voice behind him continued, "the seventh time this month?"

Blaise could not help from chuckling at such a wild assumption. Unlike Malfoy, he never discussed his romantic exploits. He thought that was not only dreadfully tacky, but also a muted sign of insecurity. He knew, however, that little girls loved to talk, and their giggly confessions had obviously made their way back to Malfoy's ears.

"I _do_ hope you're using contraceptive charms," Malfoy went on.

"Of course," Blaise answered blandly as he misted a stream of cologne across his chest. He really did not want to be having this discussion, even if it somewhat amused him.

"And I _do_ hope you're not lowering yourself to shagging _mudbloods._" Malfoy's voice was now low and spiteful. "I mean, you don't seem that picky, after all. Take for example, _Millicent Bulstrode._"

Blaise felt a sudden tinge of nausea. So his suspicions about that hazy, drunken night had been correct. He shuddered and reached for his wooly pine-green jumper.

"And she was your first, wasn't she?" he kept on ruthlessly. "Well, at least Bulstrode is a _Slytherin._ I would be quite disturbed if you started shagging _Gryffindors_ or something."

Malfoy had unknowingly hit a nerve at last, but Blaise continued to ignore him. He pulled the jumper over his head and controlled his blank features as always.

"I mean, heaven forbid you should ever shag someone like _Granger._"

Blaise quivered slightly, despite himself.

"Mind you, someone needs to shag her, and shag her bloody raw. Loosen her up a bit. The stupid little self-righteous mudblood."

Blaise couldn't resist.

"Why don't _you _shag her then," he replied, his low voice as calm as a dead sea, "and get it over with?"

He was gone too quickly to notice Malfoy's gaping, infuriated expression.

For someone who hated Muggle-borns so badly, he thought as he paced down the corridor, Malfoy seemed to be horribly keen on screwing the daylights out of Granger. Over and over again he mentioned it. Blaise almost wanted to set the two of them up on a date, just to give Malfoy a chance at his demonic fantasy. Merlin, Malfoy was a slimy little bastard. And the way he was always chattering about his bawdy trysts, always bragging about the size of his penis, always smirking so sleazily—it made Blaise wonder what Malfoy thought he needed to compensate for. Blaise thought he must have been either a virgin or gay.

Either thought brought a smile to his lips. It gave him a barbarous type of satisfaction to think that _Malfoy_ was jealous of _him._

He tried to think about Padma as he slinked around the castle, secretly weaving his way to the greenhouses. For some reason, he just wasn't feeling anything akin to arousal. He felt hungry and wild, like a prowling panther, but that was it. There was no real _pathos_ in his intentions, even though he planned to be soft and gentle and romantic. He almost felt _empty. _But he didn't care.

He knew she would be waiting for him by the front door, twisting those tiny hands in front of her as annoyingly as ever. He couldn't stand the thought of it—her innocence and her nervousness. Yet the thought of it was what kept his feet moving beneath him, searching out the marble of the floor in front of him. He decided to sneak in the back door and do what he did best. Stalk his prey.

As he crossed the threshold, the beautiful aroma of the greenhouse invaded his nostrils. It was almost as stimulating as the smell of books. She had picked the perfect place. He saw her there, through meters of twisted foliage, her back turned to him. The moon shone through the skylight on her dark skin, illuminating it as if she was glowing.

He kicked off his loafers, feeling the soft, damp massage of soil beneath his feet. It was always warm in the greenhouse, and it always smelled of earth and clay and life. He crept slowly down the row towards her, careful to avoid any particularly carnivorous-looking plants. She didn't hear him. No, she couldn't have. He was an expert at sneaking up on people—an expert at blending in, as Padma herself had noted.

The stray leaves of some mandrakes tickled his hands as he crept forward feverishly. The tendrils of a hanging plant caressed his cheeks. He strode on, his eyes steady upon the back of her head. He felt hot and ravenous—almost like he was outside of his own body, watching himself from above.

He was suddenly upon her, and she still did not notice his presence. She was sitting on a table, kicking her feet out rhythmically in front of her. He was behind her, leaning forward over the smooth, damp wood of the table. He could smell the vanilla scent of her hair. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. His lips were at her ear.

"Sorry I'm late," he whispered.

She jumped from the table and whirled around to face him.

"I. . . I didn't hear you come in," she stuttered. She was flushed and frightened. He fed off of the look on her face.

"Sorry to startle you," he replied coolly. "Get up on the table."

He was not going to give her time for small talk. He hated small talk. At the moment, he didn't care if she was a Nobel-prize winner.

She speechlessly obeyed him, sitting in front of him with her legs crossed.

"You invited me here," he commented, his eyes boring into the black holes of her pupils, "so I can only imagine what you meant to accomplish."

She said nothing. She looked particularly stricken and timid.

"Am I right?" he asked softly, cocking his head to the side.

She nodded wordlessly.

Some pathetic sense of chivalry inside him needed further confirmation. No matter how he stalked or devoured his victims, he would _never_ want to be blamed of taking any woman against her will.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly. He only needed one little word in order to proceed.

"Yes," she answered firmly, her eyes now as steady as his own.

He grabbed her by the knees and jerked her forward until her legs were dangling off the table at his sides. She gasped for air.

"Take off your shirt," he demanded.

"But I thought you would—,"

"I want to watch _you_ do it," he replied, cutting her off.

She clutched at the hem of her shirt and pulled it up quickly. He grabbed her by the arms and stopped her suddenly. She stared at him, a puzzled look in her eyes.

"_Slowly_," he whispered. "I want you to_ tease_ me."

She smiled narrowly and lifted the shirt up slowly—very slowly, indeed—above her head, complying silently with his wishes. He watched as the smooth, brown skin manifested itself in front of him. She flung the garment aside and looked down at him as though asking for his approval.

"Good," he said in a very husky voice. "Now the bra."

She slowly reached her hands around and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. He watched her chest heave as the silky material fell down her shoulders, exposing a set of chocolate-coloured, fully erect nipples. He stared at them as though they were the center of the universe. And indeed, they _were_ the center of the universe at that moment.

"Lovely," he whispered with a smile.

His hands went to her knees, delicately pushing them apart. Then they journeyed up her thighs, stopping once or twice so that his fingers could draw circles on her hot flesh. He watched her eyes with interest. She was entirely at his command. He reached beneath her skirt and seized the narrow strips of her bikini knickers. He let his hands rest there for a minute, taunting her. He felt her hips rise slightly. And then he tore the slinky garment from her body and tossed it aside.

She was suddenly clutching at his jumper, fighting to get it off of him. He helped her, his arms momentarily above his head in a very submissive action. She ran her hands experimentally over his collarbone and then shoved them deeply into his wavy hair. He took one of her breasts into his mouth, tenderly sucking at her nipple as his hands massaged her lower back.

She was moaning in pleasure, which only spurred him into deeper fits of excitement. Her legs encircled him, her whole body pleading for him to go further. He yanked her down from the table and began lowering her to the ground.

"I hope you don't mind getting dirty," he whispered against her neck, the duality of the comment not lost on either one of them.

"No," she replied breathlessly, "of course not."

He pressed her down into the soft soil beneath them, the weight of his body suddenly heavy upon her nimble frame. His hands went everywhere he could think to move them, and his mouth toyed with the skin of her neck and shoulders.

"Blaise," she whimpered.

He thought it was odd to hear his name spoken in such a fashion, but he listened to her nonetheless.

"I've never. . ."

"I guessed as much," he interrupted her. "Don't worry. I'll be very, very gentle."

* * *

This was the part that he hated. She was lying there in his arms, both of them covered with the soil of the greenhouse floor. Their breaths were now returning to normal, and he found that he had absolutely nothing to say. After all, he didn't even _know_ her. Only a few random sentences had ever passed between them. More than anything, he wanted to grab his clothes and _run._

Padma beat him to it.

She picked up her clothes from the various places they had fallen and began dressing as though her life depended on it.

"So," he said dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

"So _what?_" she replied, her long hair tangling in her shirt as she struggled quickly to get it back on.

He was speechless. He didn't think he had ever been in such a predicament before. He rose up on his elbows and stared at her wonderingly.

"What are you doing?" he asked. He barely recognised his own voice.

"I'm going back to my dormitory," she responded blandly. "It's after curfew, isn't it?"

He rose from the ground and began dressing himself, staring at her all the while with latent curiosity. Before long, they were both dressed and looking at each other nervously.

"So that's it?" he blurted out, suddenly noticing how loudly his voice echoed off the glass walls of the greenhouse.

She laughed sarcastically.

"Well, what did you think, Blaise?" she said. Her voice seemed very different from before. It almost made him tremble, her sudden coldness. "Did you honestly think that I wanted more than _this? _You're just a toy. Just a pawn. Did you know that you are affectionately referred to in Ravenclaw as the 'Hogwarts Deflowerer'?"

"What are you talking about?" he pleaded. He wasn't used to being treated like this.

"I don't know about the rest of them," she spat softly, "but _I _am engaged. My parents arranged it back in my third year of Hogwarts. He's a friend of the family."

Blaise felt something grab at his belly and jerk downwards, like a cold, numb leaden weight.

"But I had to know what it was like," she whispered.

Was that _sympathy_ in her black eyes? _Did she feel sorry for him?_

"I couldn't just get married and go to bed with my_ husband,_ without knowing what it was like to feel passionate. And besides, he's really ugly. I don't like him at all. I definitely didn't want him to be my first. But I have to marry him, or my family faces a great disgrace."

He felt a lump of something akin to—sorrow?—rising in his throat, but he didn't know why.

She sensed his sudden despondency and shifted from foot to foot anxiously.

"You were wonderful," she said plainly. "Really. Sweet, and gentle, and respectful. It was twenty times better than I thought it would be."

His heart was hammering against his breastbone wildly, his mind a total blur. He felt as though he had just walked into someone else's nightmare.

"But surely you know I was just using you," she added. "I'm sorry."

She was gone suddenly, the door of the greenhouse flapping behind her in the breeze of the December night.

* * *

**flatfoot-92:** Thanks for being my very first ever reviewer! I hope you like this chapter.


	4. Rattle and Hum

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**Spoilers: **Through OOTP.

**A/N: **_Grazie_ to all my reviewers! Thank you for your support. It keeps my coffee-maker going and my pen flowing. I can't believe you people felt sorry for Blaise! He's no angel, and it was the push he needed.

_**Diagon Venus  
**_**Chapter 4 – Rattle and Hum**

_In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum  
__Jacob wrestled the Angel  
__And the Angel was overcome_

_-- Bono_

One week later, Hermione sat at breakfast among a pile of Potions notes. She was way too inspired to be studying, having written half of her first article in frantic bouts during the past week since her "run-in" with Zabini. But schoolwork still had to come first. Inspiration would just have to wait until later that night, when she could steal away to the library under the pretense of research for History of Magic and finish her article undisturbed.

"What's all this, Hermione?" Ron asked through his usual mouthful of food.

"What does it look like, Ronald?" she snapped. "Potions, of course."

"It's not like you to put things off until the last minute," he remarked, looking a bit disheartened by her irritable mood.

"I've been busy," she grunted. She did not have time to talk. She was to have these ingredients and processes memorized before her first class this morning.

"You don't have an exam this morning, do you?" he asked, obviously hesitant to continue but curious and lonely for conversation nonetheless.

"Yes," she replied through gritted teeth. "Leave it to Snape to give us a two-part exam in the very last classes of the term."

It was Wednesday, and classes would let out for the holidays on Friday afternoon. It was very cruel of Snape. Then again, they would probably be too shocked to truly enjoy their holidays if Snape had cancelled class and started passing out candy canes.

"Harry doesn't seem that concerned," Ron commented, nodding towards his best friend, who had his head propped in his right hand and was lightly snoring.

"Harry doesn't _need_ to be concerned," Hermione answered quietly. "He's managed straight Es on all of Snape's assignments so far this year."

Ron set down his fork and looked highly confused. "Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "Harry is making top marks and _sleeping,_ and _you_ are frantically sifting through notes at the last minute." He looked around as though expecting to find he had apparated into Disneyland. "Am I in some sort of alternate parallel universe?"

"He's been this way all year," Hermione whispered. She was fairly sure that Harry was sleeping, but she didn't want to risk his anger at overhearing them deep in conversation about him. "I can't figure it out. In fact, I'm really worried."

"You? Worried about Harry?" Ron whispered back sarcastically.

"Look at him," she said. "He never talks anymore. For pity's sake, he's about to fall asleep in his breakfast. Ron, I know things are quiet right now, but he's like a different person. I would almost rather he sat up and started yelling at us."

"I know what you mean," Ron said, his face finally falling into a thoughtful grimace. "Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, I see him just _lying_ there with his eyes open. He's not sleeping, but it's as if he's in a trance or something. And when he does sleep, he mumbles things..."

"What?" Hermione asked. "What does he mumble?"

Ron raised one eyebrow and looked at her as though she was a four-year-old. "That's the thing about mumbling, Hermione. It's usually incoherent."

"Surely you can pick out something he says?"

Ron thought for a minute. He seemed to hesitate, but then went on, "The solstice. He's always on about the solstice."

"The solstice? What does that mean?"

Ron didn't have time to elaborate. Ginny Weasley, his red-haired little sister, plopped down next to him looking especially ruffled.

"Morning, Ginny," Ron said.

She grunted. Ginny had changed dramatically from the previous year. She was now taller than Hermione, with an abundance of showy, athletic curves that kept Ron constantly in battles with their ogling male classmates. Her hair had darkened to an almost auburn color, and she had a set to her jaw that was both attractive and formidable at the same time. She was a prefect now, and, next to Harry, she was the star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, wildly surpassing any precedents that Fred and George had lain down as Beaters. In their first match against Slytherin, she had sent two Chasers and the Keeper to the infirmary with her near-fatal Bludger blows. The fascinating part was her daily transformation from Quidditch-femme-fatale to Gryffindor-sex-goddess. She would nearly kill Quidditch players on the pitch, and then she would proceed to the after-parties in the common room in stylish Muggle attire that had, more than once, caused Ron to throw a cloak over her shoulders in embarrassment.

"How's O.W.L. year going so far, Ginny?" Hermione asked.

"Why don't you just hit me with a good strong _Avada Kedavra_ curse and finish me off," Ginny answered, grabbing a plate of eggs and bacon.

"Ah, yes," Hermione replied with a smile. "I remember coming close to begging for one of those myself."

"Thank Merlin we get out of here in three days," she said with a sigh. "Between classes and Quidditch, I don't know if I'm going or coming."

"It might _also_ help," Ron commented through gritted teeth, "if you could quit snogging Dean Thomas long enough to pick up a book."

At this statement, Ginny smiled. Hermione knew well enough how much Ginny's love life disturbed Ron. However, seeing as Ginny's right arm was now strong enough to knock a sizeable hole in the Great Wall of China, Ron generally kept his overprotective comments to himself.

"A girl has to have her distractions, Ron," Ginny answered.

Ron did not press the point.

"You're not coming to Grimmauld Place for the holidays?" Ginny asked Hermione as she buttered a piece of toast.

"No," Hermione answered. "I'm working on a...independent study. I could use the extra time in the library."

Ginny shrugged. "Well, I wish you were coming. I need _someone_ to rescue me from the likes of these two idiots," she said, clearly referring to Ron and Harry. Ron looked thoroughly discomposed but said nothing. "Mind you, I can't wait to see Fred and George. I could really go for a Skiving Snackbox about now, and they've offered me a discount. And Tonks will be there," she went on, "so I guess I won't be at a loss for some good old-fashioned girl talk."

"Girl talk?!" Ron nearly screamed. "More girl talk? What the bloody hell do you talk about behind our backs?"

"Just the usual," Ginny replied, nonplussed. "You know, male stupidity, kissing strategies,...penis size."

Ron appeared to attempt to speak, but nothing came out.

"Don't worry, Ron," Ginny assured him with a devilish grin. "It's not the size of the wand that matters. It's the magic you can do with it."

Hermione laughed out loud. She loved to watch Ginny ruthlessly taunt her big brother.

"Crikey," Ginny said, "what's wrong with Harry? It looks like his bowl of cornflakes is about to take a beating."

"You've got to get him to start sleeping at night," Hermione commanded Ron.

"What do want me to do?" Ron asked, apparently recovering from Ginny's little joke. "Sing him a bloody lullabye? Read him a bedtime story?" This seemed to give Ron an idea. "Maybe you could loan me your Arithmancy text. That would do the trick for anyone."

Hermione glared at him.

Just then, the morning post arrived, and a fairly sizeable brown package was plunked down in front of Hermione. This was it. Mrs Weasley had come through for her.

"What's that?" Ron demanded, staring at the address on the wrapping. "That's mum's handwriting."

"Must be an early Christmas present," Hermione commented nervously.

She reached for the parcel, but Ron got to it first and held it up to look at it.

"Does this have anything to do with the owl you sent her last week?" Ron asked, an antagonistic edge to his voice.

"Give it to me!" Hermione shrieked. She didn't care if the entire school saw her make an idiot of herself. Ron had no business interfering.

He stood up and held the parcel up in the air, just out of her reach. "What is it?" he implored sadistically.

"I won't know until I_ open_ it, _will_ I?" she nearly yelled.

Ron had a very sinister look about his visage. He lived for this, Hermione thought, to taunt her and embarrass her and mercilessly torture her. She reached for the parcel, but it was no use. Ron was much too tall, and he held it high above his head, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"What's it worth to you?" he asked. "Because I've got a History of Magic essay with your name written all over it."

Hermione looked down at Ginny for help. Ginny looked curious but non-committal.

"Give...that...to...me...right...NOW!" Hermione yelled, making one final jump for the parcel.

"What have you got my mum sending you?" Ron continued cruelly.

Hermione didn't have time to answer. A sleek, pale hand effortlessly grabbed the parcel and handed it over to Hermione majestically. Hermione looked to the owner of the hand. She was a very tall, slim, enchanting witch. The sheer layers of her crimson robes barely covered her bursting cleavage, and her shoulders wore a train of long, raven-coloured hair. Her face was cold and aristocratic, but her eyes were violet and coolly afire. Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye that Harry had awakened. In fact, nearly every young wizard in the vicinity had turned to stare at the scene. This woman seemed to possess a type of vitality outside of herself—a quiet, gleaming control over everyone around her.

"P-Professor Pernicia," Ron stuttered, his eyes awkwardly focused on her breasts.

"You're not acting like much of a gentleman, Mr Weasley," the captivating witch cooed.

Hermione took the parcel and stared at this woman in front of her, unable to discern any type of meaning behind the cold yet fiery eyes. Harry shifted about nervously, his eyes fixed on the professor. Ginny stared despite herself.

"If this is your method of flirting," Professor Pernicia continued, gazing steadily at Ron's trembling frame, "then you might want to reconsider your approach."

She was gone in less than an instant, her sheer burgundy robes cascading behind her like blood in motion.

"I have to go," Harry announced suddenly, getting up and following the scarlet remnants of the professor like a puppy dog.

It was very strange. Hermione clutched the parcel to her chest, delighted to have seen Ron put in his place. Ginny pushed her food around on her plate.

"Well, Ronald," Hermione began quietly, "now I understand what you find so fascinating about Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays."

He said nothing. He merely settled himself back down at the table, looking especially sheepish.

"Flirting," he mumbled. His cheeks were glowing with crimson color. "I don't know where she got _that._" He shoved his plate aside and gathered his bag from beneath the table. "I have to go as well," he muttered. "I'll be late for Herbology."

This left Ginny and Hermione at the table, looking at each other quite interestingly.

"Priscilla Pernicia," Hermione whispered. "I had no idea. But I must say; now I see what all the fuss is about."

"Do you..." Ginny began hesitantly, then stopped herself. She looked suddenly mischievous and cautious at the same time. "Do you think she's pretty?"

"She's beautiful," Hermione replied, utterly transfixed. "It's almost _weird,_ isn't it?"

"I know," Ginny whispered. "The boys in my Divination class can't keep their eyes off her..." Ginny paused. "And neither can the girls, for that matter."

"Well," Hermione said, "she is very _unusual._"

"Do you know anything about her?"

"Nothing."

"Neither do I. No one seems to know anything about her. I guess that's what makes her so good at Divination, you know? She's so mysterious."

Hermione chuckled. "She's a far cry from Trelawney, isn't she?"

"Without a doubt," Ginny responded, her eyes slightly glazed. "I suppose I should get to class as well. It's about that time, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded, still holding the package firmly, and stuffed her Potions notes into her book bag with one hand. Ginny got up and left. Hermione found herself alone now, the curious parcel pressed to her breast like a treasure. She glanced around cautiously and then tore it open. Inside were two books, _Lady Chatterley's Lover _and a thick purple paperback with a very explicit cover image of a man embracing a long-haired maiden. There was a letter as well.

She pulled the letter from the wrapping and stuffed the books into her bag. She had to get to Potions class. If there was time, she would read the letter outside of the dungeon.

She raced down the hall, ignoring second-years who were carrying objects that suspiciously resembled dungbombs. Her feet were flying again, despite her mindless efforts of playing the perfect Gryffindor prefect. She stopped only once she was outside of the Potions classroom, and she pulled the letter out of the envelope, glancing around to make sure no one was looking. She read it quickly.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I am sorry to hear that we won't be seeing you over the holidays. I do appreciate your update on Ronald, though I admit I was a bit surprised to hear that he was "more interested in his studies." However, he has, in fact, been writing to me, and his recent owl indicated that he has taken quite a new liking to Charms. I can only hope this doesn't result in a desire for him to follow in the footsteps of Fred and George. They are, indeed, wreaking havoc, but they're just so good at it that I can't seem to complain. And they are obviously making a lot of money at it, as well._

_I have enclosed the books you requested. It was actually quite interesting to browse through a Muggle bookstore. I apologize for the dog-eared pages in the purple romance novel. I couldn't resist the temptation to skim through it myself. I definitely understand how you might think your own mother would disapprove. (But they are quite delicious little tales, aren't they?)_

_To be quite honest, I was beginning to worry about you. As you probably know, I myself was married at eighteen. And between the fact that your two best friends are boys, and your fascination with more—lofty—subject matter, I've been afraid you might miss out on some of the more enchanting aspects of becoming a young woman. Research, indeed! You're almost seventeen years old, and I would be concerned if you were not at least slightly interested in these things. We're not a bunch of Puritanical Americans, after all._

_I hope you enjoy the books. I know I did. By the way, Arthur thanks you for the Muggle change._

_Kindest regards,_

_Mrs Weasley_

_P.S. Your secret is safe with me._

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. So Mrs Weasley did not think she was a total pervert at all. In fact, she seemed to understand Hermione's predicament more than anyone else on the planet at the moment.

She skimmed the letter again, but she was stopped as she felt the sudden burden of eyes upon her. She looked up. Blaise Zabini was walking past her, but he stopped just before he reached the door of the Potions classroom. He turned around and began strolling straight in her direction. He was looking at her oddly, a quiet gleam in his dark blue eyes. She held the parchment vacantly to her chest, wondering what the hell he was doing _staring_ at her like that.

"Granger," he greeted her with a tiny nod.

"Zabini," she replied, her chin thrust into the air with feigned indifference.

She noticed with a gasp that he was drawing closer to her. She could feel the heat from his steadfast body. She could just make out the delicate curl of his long, black eyelashes. He drew uncommonly close to her, his face void of expression. He glanced down at the parchment in her hands and then back up at her wide eyes.

"Anyone's body _'crying out to be ravished'_ recently?" he asked, his dark eyes sweltering.

She nearly laughed out loud. The morning just kept getting stranger.

"I'll keep you posted," she replied with a smile, noticing that he seemed to retreat more demurely than he had approached her.

_What was that?_ Was that a _battle cry_ she had heard? She could have sworn that Blaise Zabini had just _flirted_ with her.

All throughout Potions, she could not seem to take her eyes off of him. Harry was no more talkative than he had been at breakfast (or ever was anymore), and she was actually glad of it at the moment. It gave her time to ruminate on Zabini's very bold, very uncharacteristic remark. Zabini was no Malfoy. He never flirted or teased anyone. Hell, he never spoke at _all._ She had been shocked to find that his voice was deep and silky, almost musical with its very slight accent.

She stirred her steaming potion and stared at him. Luckily, he was in the front of the classroom, to the side a bit, with his back turned enough so that he couldn't see her ogle him so shamelessly. He was crushing snake fangs, an intense, solid set to his jaw. She watched his hands as he worked. The long, tan fingers gripped the stone pestle firmly but delicately, every motion calculated and precise. His strength, his subtlety, his attention to detail—it made her squirm uncontrollably in her seat. She went back to work on her potion, afraid that someone (namely Snape) would see her staring and make a spectacle out of it. She realized that she was breathing a little more quickly than usual. She began mentally counting down the hours until she could get back to her story.

The day just kept getting quirkier as the hours went on. There was some kind of restless, quiet intensity in the air all around her, and she wasn't convinced that anyone else noticed it. In Charms, they were studying a disguising spell that could camouflage inanimate objects. Professor Flitwick warned them, with a knowing grin, against attempting to use the spell on themselves. Hermione reveled at the possibilities of the charm, as it gave her a new and excellent way of hiding the proof of her current writing escapades.

"_Coperto!_" she spoke at her textbook, and then she marveled at the empty desk in front of her. She reached out and felt the hard, solid cover of the book, but no one would ever know it was there just by looking.

"Show-off," Ron grumbled. The long spine of his own book was still showing.

"You're just having an off day," she told him. "You've been doing really well in Charms lately." She studied his determined face. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just anxious about the holidays," he admitted quietly. "It would be nice for once to go back to the Burrow."

She could see the dread all over his face at the thought of having to return to Sirius' old abode with Harry. Harry made no comment.

"What did my mum send you?" he asked suddenly. Leave it to Ron to effectively change the subject while simultaneously pumping her for information.

She sighed heavily, giving in, and reached down into her bag. She grabbed the two novels and tossed them unceremoniously onto the desk in front of Ron. "I thought I could go for a little more mindless reading than I'm accustomed to," she replied.

"_Forbidden Legacy_?" Ron snickered, picking up the purple romance novel and glaring at the lewd cover. Even Harry seemed slightly interested. "Crikey, Hermione," Ron whispered with a very broad grin and flushed cheeks, "you should get a dress like that."

She tutted loudly but couldn't help smiling herself. "I'll get a dress like that when _you_ get a body like _that_," she retorted, pointing at the scantily clad hero.

"What on earth inspired you to want a book like this?" Ron asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I told you," she answered, stuffing both novels back into her bag, "mindless reading."

"And mum just bought them for you?"

"Yes."

"No questions asked?"

"Oh, Ron, you're so thick. You really don't understand women, do you?"

"Who does?" he replied. "I mean, just when you think you know someone—,"

"They start ogling Slytherins," Harry blurted out.

"WHAT?!" Ron and Hermione spouted simultaneously. Ron maintained his newly perfected "new-world-order" expression. Hermione tried to hide her flaming head in her hands.

"What are you talking about?" Ron demanded.

"Ask Hermione," Harry answered plainly. "She's the one who can't keep her eyes off of Blaise Zabini."

"Blaise Zabini?!" Ron thundered. "Who is that?"

"You know," Harry said, "tall, dark, quiet...he's actually kind of Krum-like, if you ask me."

"Krum-like?!" Ron shouted.

Hermione was very glad that the classroom was full enough of the noisy cries of _"Coperto!"_ to cover Ron's unabashedly loud voice.

"Shut UP!" she yelled suddenly. She turned on Harry, her cheeks the color of Ron's hair. "I was not ogling him, thank you very much. I was simply...admiring his work."

"He's got quite a reputation, that one," Harry continued.

"Admire...work...reputation," Ron managed to say in between gasps of air. "Would someone please tell me what is going on here?"

"You should be careful, Hermione," Harry said. He was not at all fazed by Ron's panting or Hermione's blushing. "But I'm sure I don't have to tell _you_ that. After all, _you're_ the level-headed one, right?"

She stared at him. He had become so spiteful, so vicious.

Ron was still looking like he might burst a blood vessel.

"It's nothing," she asserted. "And even if it was, I can look out for myself, Harry."

She hated arguing with him. It made her feel really, _really_ terrible. But he had overstepped his boundaries, and she had to let him know it.

"Look after yourself, huh?" he went on quietly. "Like when you were lying petrified in the hospital wing? Or when you were strapped to a boulder at the bottom of the lake? Or how about when you were lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries?"

She lowered her head, unsure if the tears in her eyes were burning with sorrow or with anger.

"That's enough for today, class," Flitwick announced. "Practice this charm for Friday."

She had never been so glad to be dismissed from class. She grabbed her bag and ran from the classroom, fighting with herself to keep the tears from falling. She skipped lunch and raced off to the library. She found a dark corner in the Restricted Section and sat down on the carpet. _She would not cry. She would not allow herself to cry. _She pulled out her Arithmancy text and thumbed through it numbly.

What bothered her more than anything was the fact that she would have never _been_ petrified or strapped to a boulder or unconscious in the Department of Mysteries if it hadn't been for simply wanting to help _him._ Well, not the boulder in the lake, at least. That was Krum's doing. Nonetheless, Harry was so blind, so malevolent. Why?

It couldn't have just been Sirius' death. There had to something he wasn't telling them. She finally summed it up to the stress of the holidays. She could forgive Harry for a lot of things, but. . .

She had to forget about it. It was the only way she could make it through the rest of the day. Two classes left, she reminded herself, and both of them were thankfully void of Harry's presence. And blessed by Zabini's.

What was she thinking? Was she actually looking forward to seeing the silent Slytherin? His remark from earlier that morning had thoroughly ruffled her. No, it had shocked her, perhaps even more than running into him head-on at the bottom of the stairwell. He was _challenging_ her. It was so obvious. She grinned to herself, abundantly grateful for the distraction that he was providing. She pulled out her quill and parchment, deciding to make the most of her lunch break.

* * *

As Blaise sat in Potions that morning, meticulously pulverizing his snake fangs, he tried in every conceivable way to convince himself that he had not really done what he thought he had just done. Because he could have sworn that he had just flirted with Granger, and that did not make any sense at all. He had never flirted with anyone before. His father flirted. His cousin Nìccolo flirted. Draco Malfoy flirted. Blaise Zabini did _not_ flirt. He didn't want to, and he didn't have to. All he had ever had to do was walk quietly down the hall with his chin in the air or lurk about pensively in the library, and girls approached him naturally. Besides, flirting required actually _speaking,_ and unnecessary speech was detestable to him. He preferred to keep his thoughts to himself.

He had no idea what had come over him. He had been simply minding his own business, as usual. As he sauntered carelessly towards the Potions classroom, he saw her standing there, her bushy hair all over the place and a piece of parchment clasped in her ink-stained hands. Some wild thought had suddenly taken him by force. She looked so _defenseless._ That prowling panther once again began to growl with hunger, deep in his chest. He remembered her Potions notes, and how he had been so shocked by them. He remembered how he had blushed—actually blushed!—when he gave them back to her. It had caught him completely off-guard. And now was his chance to redeem himself. So he strolled straight up to her outside the classroom and got as close to her as he could. He made a rather lewd comment, and she responded so quickly that it left him a bit shaken.

And now, sitting there in front of his bubbling cauldron, mindlessly working the pestle against the hard enamel of the snake fangs, he tried to logically explain his behaviour. But that was the thing about flirting, and probably the number-one reason he didn't do it: it defied logic. If he couldn't reason his way around something, then it was barely worth thinking about to begin with.

Take Padma, for example. Merlin knows he had spent the past week desperately trying to figure that one out. It was simple, really. She had said it herself—she was just using him. And he had gotten what_ he_ wanted out of the situation, so why should it bother him? It wasn't like he wanted a relationship. He didn't even really like her. But she had been ice cold to him after the fact. He hated her for that. When he had looked into her coal-black eyes, he had seen the same indifference—the exact same calculating coldness—by which he lived his own life. What was that Muggle expression? Oh, yeah...he had "gotten a taste of his own medicine." It felt very odd, indeed, to see yourself so ruthlessly dished right back out at you. He shuddered at the thought of it.

More than anything in the world at that moment, he wanted to turn around and look at Granger. He wondered if she was looking at him. He rather thought she might have been. Well, let her look. He would be damned to Hades before_ he_ turned around.

Potions ended, and the rest of the morning trudged on laboriously. There was little in life more slow and exhausting than those last few days before the Christmas holidays. Everyone else would be packing their trunks, happily anticipating a welcome break from their studies and a chance to spend time with their families. He, on the other hand, would be staying at Hogwarts as usual. The Yuletide meant absolutely nothing to his family. Every year it was the same. His father went to Italy on "business" (Torino, this year), and his mother and three older sisters went to France to be with his mother's family. He could have gone with them if he wanted, but his sisters taunted him so relentlessly that he thought he preferred the cold, damp dungeon that was his common room.

He at lunch quietly, sitting alone as usual. Lunch consisted of half a sandwich and five cups of coffee. He knew he had an unhealthy obsession with coffee, but he had barely slept the previous night—thanks mostly to Padma—and he had to have something to get him through the afternoon. Two classes left, and Granger was in both of them. This brought a slight smile to his face. He would be very interested to see how she reacted to him now.

Thinking about the events of the morning, he pulled out his pocket dictionary and thumbed through it. It was a small paperback that he had gotten in a Muggle bookstore when he was ten years old, and part of the front cover was torn off and peeling. The newspaper-quality pages were yellowed with age, and more than a few of them were splattered with coffee stains. He usually took immaculate care of his books, but this one had been with him so long and had been used so frequently that it bore the appropriate battle scars.

Blaise adored dictionaries. He had read this one over and over again, as though it was a novel. He still had the original receipt from the day he had purchased it, and the receipt currently marked the middle of the Rs. He had a habit of keeping receipts of his book purchases and using them as bookmarks. That way, whenever he opened the book, he could reminisce on exactly where and when he had purchased it. "Real" bookmarks were just a marketing ploy in his opinion.

He was constantly referring to his pocket dictionary. Words intrigued him, each one having a different meaning to the person who used them. And words were very important. Since he used as few words as possible when he spoke, those words had to be carefully selected from an expansive internal database. They had to be precise, almost lethal. They had to be perfect. So many people rambled on incessantly without saying a thing, and this disturbed him to no end. It was what he particularly hated about little girls.

He flipped through the Fs until he found what he was looking for.

**flirt.** _verb. _To behave amorously without serious intent.

Well, there it was, as plain as day. To flirt implied that one had no goal in mind. This defied his entire Slytherin attitude toward life. He _always_ had a goal in mind. This, he supposed, was why he had never been fond of flirting.

But that was about to change. He had played the quiet thinker, he had done the brainless shagging, and he had never really cared. But Padma had taught him something very important. When it came to girls, he suddenly wanted a _challenge. _No one would use him again. They would have to cunningly fight for his attention, and he was actually somewhat aroused by the thought of having to fight back.

Granger was perfect. That must be why he had subconsciously selected her. She was a Gryffindor and his arch-enemy in academics. He could go around screwing Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs all day long if he wanted to. But getting into Granger's knickers. . . now _that_ was a true demand on his budding skills. And he had initiated the game without even consciously realising it. It was 1-0, his favor, and he couldn't wait for the next round.

He smiled to himself as he packed his bag. He would get to Arithmancy early, and he would be ready for her when she came in. He felt the panther purring, his veins stretched and hot with his pounding blood. He stood up and tossed back the last bit of coffee, and then he headed for the corridor.

A tiny hand stopped him, pulling on his robe. He turned slowly around to find Padma Patil looking up at him nervously.

"Blaise," she said softly.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice strong but cool.

"I'm sorry about last week. I didn't mean to be rude or anything."

He just stared at her. Rude? He was just a toy—just a pawn—but she hadn't meant to be _rude_ or anything. He allowed himself a brief fantasy about hexing her.

"I was just nervous," she went on. Merlin, now she was twisting her hands again. He wanted to smack them to get her to stop. "I mean, I hope I didn't deal you a lethal blow or anything."

He kept his face as dark and unreadable as a stagnant pool of water. How dare she go on so immaturely? He leaned down towards her, his blue eyes flaming with the indignation that he refused to show elsewhere. "Padma," he whispered, one eyebrow raised demonically, "if that was meant to be a lethal blow, then you need to sharpen your knife."

He viciously tore his arm away from her hand and proceeded towards the Arithmancy classroom. Damn, it felt good to finally speak up! Before now, he would have simply shrugged off her comment and walked away. That was the old Blaise. The new Blaise would strike like lightning, abruptly and violently, and he would leave no survivors. He wanted to congratulate Padma for that, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He would still be calm and pensive and hidden. No one would ever see him coming; least of all Granger.

He was the first to arrive in Arithmancy. He took his usual seat at the back, pulled out his journal, and began flipping through it for the page he was looking for. It was an old, heavy hardbound journal with creamy vellum pages. Most of the pages were covered in numerous tiny lines of scratchy penmanship. Some pages were splashed haphazardly with definitions from his pocket dictionary, written at various angles. Around the middle of the journal began the_ initials._ Scattered randomly among the entries, they typically filled an entire page.

Each set of initials was drawn differently, and each brought back a different memory. This was another habit of his. Whenever he had sex with a girl, he would mark her initials in his journal. The random letters would mean little to an outsider. He refused to actually _write_ about his sexual experiences—that was far too incriminating—so initialing had become a unique way of recording them.

**"M.B."** said the first one in plain, simple letters. There were no flourishes, obviously. Hell, he barely remembered it. He was quite glad, actually, that the details were foggy.

**"H.A."** said the next one in very large, ornate lettering. He chuckled. If only Ernie MacMillan knew about that one. He probably did by now. She really liked to fool around. It took him almost a month of oral stimulation before she had finally let him shag her. Mmmm. . . he could still _taste_ her.

He flipped on a bit.

**"G.W."** the next one revealed in huge, bold block letters. Whew! He honestly thought that one almost constituted rape. She had brutally attacked him post-Quidditch-match (still sweaty), thrown him into a broom closet, and completely had her way with him. The whole thing had lasted less than ten minutes. He was guessing she had never told anyone. Personally, he planned to take it to his grave.

**"L.T."** was elegantly printed a few pages later, with hundreds of curly-cues and dots. His first Ravenclaw. What an enormous amount of patience _that_ one took. She was not only giggly, but _very_ ticklish. He finally had to just abandon the idea of kissing her on the neck. She took a few weeks of gentle coercion as well. He didn't mind at all. It had given him a chance to hone his skills.

**"P.P."** said the most recent page, still waiting to be adorned. He began filling in the letters with rigid, jagged marks. He sighed heavily. Ah, it was the end of an era.

They had _all _used him. Looking back, he thought more highly of G.W. than any of the rest of them. At least _she_ had not pretended. And she had not even tried to kiss him on the lips. She had simply known what she wanted, and then she had taken it unapologetically. He had to admire that about her, especially since it was so very Slytherin-like. And there was certainly something to be said for speechless, passionate quickies.

As he was filling in the letters absent-mindedly and reminiscing over his past escapades, a very firm, bossy voice spoke from directly over his shoulder.

"Oh, for pity's sake," she said, "not _you_ as _well._"

He jumped before he could stop himself and whipped his head around. Granger had her arms folded and a smirk on her face. So she had recognised his challenge for what it was, and she had come at last in an attempt to toy with him. Good.

"What are you talking about?" he asked blandly, no sign of emotion on his face that might betray his sudden thrill.

With a short, thin finger, she pointed at the initials and rolled her eyes. "P.P.?" she snickered. "Don't tell me...Priscilla Pernicia?"

"Old and slinky is not my type, Granger," he replied in the same casual voice. He really, truly wanted to smile, but he wouldn't allow himself even a smirk.

"Prefer young and innocent, do you?" she demanded. _Her_ smirk was not hidden at all. "Let's see...Pansy Parkinson, then?"

He didn't even blink.

"No," she continued, "I guess Pansy has already been soiled by Malfoy's slimy little hands. Hmmm...Then maybe," she said, leaning very close to him—he could see the freckles on her nose— "yes, of course...it must be _Padma Patil._"

He slammed the journal shut, nearly catching her finger inside it. Apparently, good news traveled fast. He looked straight into her eyes, unwaveringly. He noticed that they were now almost reddish-brown in color, a very peculiar fire about the specks of her irises. His words were slow and vacuous: "How about _Pesky Prefect_?"

She laughed. "I'm honoured, Zabini," she spat enthusiastically. "I never knew you cared."

"Granger," he cooed, tilting his head to the side, "you don't want to play these little games with me."

"You started it."

"How mature."

She sneered at him. Their faces were almost touching. She moved her lips to his ear. Her hair tickled the side of his face. "And why wouldn't I want to play?"

Then _his_ lips went to _her_ ear. They grazed her earlobe. Very softly, very skillfully, he whispered, _"Because you'll lose."_

She stood upright and stared down at him, her arms folded once again. "I don't know, Zabini," she retorted. "At the moment, it appears we're tied."

And then she strutted up towards her usual seat at the front of the class. She did not once bother to look back.

Well, the little hussy was better at this than he had imagined. And he had even surprised himself. For someone who had just learned the definition of the word "flirt," he didn't seem to be half bad at it.

_Tied. _Slytherins didn't tie; they _won._ But suddenly, "tied" did not seem to be such a bad position in which to find oneself.


	5. Tied And Tongue–Tied

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**Spoilers: **All 5 books. And if you haven't yet read your way through OOTP, then you might consider crawling out of that cave you're living in.

**A/N: It's all here, people.** Witty banter, a near-mental-breakdown, a lasciviously evil Draco, and a writer's worst nightmare. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. _Adesso, ci cominciamo..._

* * *

_**Diagon Venus**_

**Chapter 5 – Tied (And Tongue-Tied)**

****

****

_You plant a demon seed,  
__You raise a flower of fire.  
__-- Bono_

For the next 36 hours, Hermione neither ate nor slept. What she _did_ do was drink a lot of coffee, write page after page of inspired romantic fiction, and replay her conversation with Zabini over and over again in her mind. There were a few classes in there somewhere amongst the chaos. While in class, she somehow managed to concentrate. As soon as class was dismissed, she was writing again. She completely ignored Harry and Ron. Merlin, she didn't even have time to fool with Zabini right now, even though he gave her a very odd look in the library on Wednesday night. When Thursday evening rolled around, she had effectively memorized the bare necessities for Potions on Friday, scribbled her way haphazardly through her Arithmancy homework, and completed a not-so-brilliant essay for Charms. That was it. No other schoolwork would be required until after the New Year. She felt bad for skimping on her assignments, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that first article.

It wasn't as though she was facing a deadline. After all, Part I of the series was not due until 15 January. The only problem was that inspiration had a _definite _deadline. She learned quickly that the muses were simply not going to wait for her to finish lunch. If she didn't get it out right then, she might as well have given up altogether.

This would have been so much easier with a Quick-Notes Quill. She made a mental note to buy the best one on the market when she received her 100-galleon prize money for her competition piece. For now, longhand would have to do. Her wrist ached, her neck muscles grew painfully tight, and there was ink everywhere. She had bags under her eyes, and she couldn't remember the last time she had brushed her hair. Still she wrote. There were no longer, it seemed, any people around her. In fact, there were no other people in the world, she thought idly, other than the two people in this massive story that she had created. They were all that mattered.

And then she finished. It must have been around 9:30. It was the night before the last day of class. The library was completely empty. Part I was complete.

It was almost anti-climatic. _Now what?_

She read all the way through it, double-checking for errors and smiling once or twice at her own comedic tone. Then she scribbled out a cover letter, stuffed the letter and the finished column into a thick, brown envelope, and released a long, exaggerated sigh that had been weeks in the making. As she went to shove the envelope into her bag, she happened to notice the purple paperback sent to her by Mrs Weasley. She picked it up and looked at the cover with a grin. _Forbidden Legacy._ This would require a more comfortable seating arrangement.

She picked up her bag and found a big, fluffy chair near the back of the library. As she sat down and opened the paperback book, she tossed the bag down beside the chair. The envelope was crammed inside, but the corners still stuck out conspicuously, as her bag was stretched to its seams with books and notes. She took out her wand and aimed it at the brown envelope that contained her darkest secret.

"_Coperto!_" she whispered. She smiled happily as the envelope disappeared, blending in with the papers around it. Now she could safely lounge back into the billowy comfort of the chair and delight in some well-deserved reading time.

The romance novel began slowly. In fact, Hermione could have thought of a hundred sentences that might have captured the reader's attention more effectively. But what did she really know? She was new at this. And she was so sleepy. Her eyes grew heavy.

She turned the page.

She was in Arithmancy. She was walking towards a mass of wavy black hair, feeling very hot and somewhat nervous. His head was bent over a journal. He didn't seem to notice her when she leaned over his shoulder. In an Olde English font, he had perfectly rendered a set of huge, black letters. "H.G.," they said. What did it mean? She thought for a moment that it might have something to do with "hair gel," but that made no sense.

She was thrown atop the desk. A long, lean body settled itself against her. The Arithmancy classroom was suddenly an office of some sort. She could see the flicker of the fluorescent lights above her. The hair on the head beneath her chin was soft and slightly tangled, like a pile of discarded corn silk. She fought for air. What was happening?

She screamed out a word—a name, it seemed—but no sound came from her throat. She was answered by a tickling purr at her earlobe. _Whoa._ _That felt really good._ Her body was melting. Her legs parted...

She awoke with a start and jolted from the chair. The romance novel was on the floor beside her bag. She grabbed both of them and ran.

When she reached her dormitory room, Lavender and Parvati were deep in giggly conversation. They looked up at her, their noses upturned as always when she was in their presence.

"What the hell happened to _you_?" Lavender asked.

"I fell asleep in the library," she replied.

Lavender snickered at her, and she realized what an idiotic statement that must have been to someone who did not appreciate books as she did.

Her head was pounding. She _must_ remember to eat something tomorrow. How long had it been anyway, since she had eaten? She couldn't remember. She thought she might be hallucinating. The bed curtains felt like sandpaper as she pulled them apart and plunged onto her bed.

"Sleeping in your clothes again?" Lavender's voice said above the deafening ache in her head.

"Yes," she whimpered.

Silence. Good. Maybe they would shut their mouths and go to sleep. She pulled the curtains closed and thrust her head against her pillow.

"Anyway," Parvati's voice continued, "we have to go to Padma's fiancé 's house for dinner on Christmas."

The pain in Hermione's head receded slightly, overcome by a dim feeling of sudden curiosity.

"Her fiancé?" Lavender asked.

"Yes. Poor Padma. The wedding is already planned, of course, for the day after graduation. I'm so glad I'm the younger twin. Our parents don't have any plans yet for _me_, as far as I know."

"She has to marry him?"

"They say they'll disown her if she doesn't. I feel so bad for her. She really wanted to do research for the Department of Counteractive Charms."

"She must be really smart, huh?"

"She didn't get put into Ravenclaw for nothing."

A pause. Hermione held her breath.

"But Padma decided not to go quietly, if you know what I mean."

Another pause.

"What do you mean?"

And then a chuckle.

"Well, she was determined that Armand would get her second-hand."

"No way. You mean she—"

"Yep."

"Wow," Lavender whispered. "Who?"

"Blaise Zabini." There was almost a tinge of pride in Parvati's voice.

"Oh. . .my. . .god. When?"

"Just the other night. In the greenhouse."

"And?"

"Well, she didn't give me all the details, of course."

"Of course."

"But she _did_ say that it was one hell of a way to go."

Giggling. Wild, unrestrained giggling.

"I can't believe it."

"I know. She said it was surreal. He snuck up on her."

"He's good at sneaking, isn't he?"

"That's not _all_ he's good at, according to Padma."

"Oh, and he's absolutely _beautiful_. Tall, and dark, and Italian. And that _hair_."

"They say Italians make the best lovers, you know."

More giggling.

Lavender's voice dropped suddenly. Hermione had to strain to hear her. "Did she say if it...you know...._hurt_?"

"Apparently, it hurt like hell. She said he has a dick as thick as my forearm."

"Ouch."

"Indeed. I don't care _how_ beautiful he is. That's just freaky."

Giggle, giggle.

Hermione thought that she really did not need to be hearing this right now. She tried to block it out. After all, she was very sleepy.

"Apparently," Parvati continued, "he has a reputation for being the _'Hogwarts Deflowerer.'_ And he's good at what he does, from what I've heard. Lisa Turpin is the one who recommended him to Padma."

Hermione willed herself to sleep.

* * *

Friday morning. 6:02am. The last day of classes before Christmas holidays. The Great Hall was nearly empty. Blaise unenthusiastically munched on his cornflakes and read from his pocket dictionary. 

**²tie.** _verb._ **1:** to fasten, attach, or close by means of a tie **2:** to bring together firmly: **UNITE** **3:** to form a knot or bow in ( a scarf) **4:** to restrain from freedom of action: **CONSTRAIN** **5:** to make or have an equal score with

Unite. . .constrain. . .equal score. One little three-letter word, and so many different meanings. He pondered the definition with a crease in his brow. Malfoy was right; he shouldn't think so much. Thinking only led to more questions.

He placed the receipt/bookmark between the pages and refilled his coffee mug. There was only one other person at the Slytherin table this early, and he suddenly had a desperate urge to talk to her. He gathered his things and paced down the table towards her. Then he sat down heavily, resolutely, and crossed his arms on the table in front of him. The stunned look on her face was priceless.

"Millicent," he began quietly, "let me ask you something."

She stopped eating at once, her fork halfway to her mouth and motionless. "Yes?" she replied.

"We," he said, then thought better of it. Well, he couldn't stop now. He tried a different approach. "You and I..."

"Yes?" She was grinning. She obviously knew what was coming, and she was determined not to make it easy on him.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "You and I," he whispered, "did the deed, right?"

She laughed. It was not a giggle or a snicker or a chuckle. It was downright cackling. She dropped her fork and wiped her eyes.

"Did the _deed_?" she repeated joyously.

He should have known that this was a huge mistake.

"Please stop laughing, Millicent," he whispered. "This is hard enough as it is."

"It was hard enough back then, as well," she retorted. "And long, and thick..."

"Forget it," he said, reaching for his bag.

"No, Blaise, _wait_," she commanded, honestly attempting to compose herself. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Well," he continued against his better judgment.

"Spit it out, Zabini—no pun intended." She was enjoying this very much.

He drew a deep breath. "Was I any good at all?" he asked very abruptly.

"Good?" she repeated. "You were drunk, Blaise. _Very_ drunk. You couldn't have aimed a Quaffle through the bleeding _Arc de Triomphe_, if you catch my drift."

He put his head in his hands and exhaled loudly.

"But other than that," she went on, more quietly than before, "you were amazing."

He peeked tentatively through his fingers. "Really?"

"Yes, _really_. You were playful and gentle...and just rough enough when the moment called for it. Oh, and the very _girth_ of your penis should be against some sort of law. In a good way."

He took a sip of coffee, somewhat appeased.

"Why the sudden inferiority complex?" she asked.

"Let's see," he replied. "Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that the last girl I was with dumped me approximately 3.5 seconds after the fact?"

"_No_."

"Yes," he said. "And to top it off, she's engaged to someone else." He paused and lowered his voice even more. "She called me the 'Hogwarts Deflowerer.'"

"I've heard that one," Millicent said, chuckling again. "Wait a minute...I think I _started_ that one. Sorry about that. I didn't think it would catch on so well. But it _has_ worked out in your favor, hasn't it?"

"I suppose," he replied through gritted teeth.

"Aww, poor wittle Bwaisey-poo," she said mockingly. "Can't get anyone to wuv him for his bwain?"

He glared at her.

"It might help, you know," she whispered, "if you would form a complete sentence once in awhile. This is the most words I've heard you speak in six years, _including_ our little tryst."

She was right. He knew it. And he hated her for it.

"Anyway," she went on, "back to our former topic of conversation. I've heard that you've improved immensely in that area, if that's possible. How about a repeat performance? Minus the booze this time, of course. We could consider it payment. I hear you're struggling at Muggle Studies."

He couldn't help looking shocked. "How did _you_ even know I was _taking_ Muggle Studies?"

"I have my sources," she replied with a knowing grin. "So, what do you say?"

He knew what he'd _like_ to say. But he'd been brought up to never insult a female, even after a merciless tirade such as the one he had just suffered through.

"I'm thinking of asking Hermione Granger to help me," he commented casually. "She's Muggle-born, after all, and she seems to jump on any opportunity to study."

Millicent's mouth was hanging open. "I think you need to go see Madame Pomfrey," she said. "All of this meaningless shagging has obviously taken its toll on your senses."

"I'm serious."

"She'll laugh in your face! And then she'll hex you into oblivion."

A very Malfoy-like smirk crossed his lips as he stood up. "I'll make her an offer she can't refuse."

Millicent continued to look baffled. He threw his bag over his shoulder and began to leave, but then thought better of it.

"Oh, Millicent," he said dryly.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what happened last year to Marietta Edgecombe?"

"Yes..."

He bent over the table and stared her straight in the eye. "Speak of _any_ of this to _anyone_," he whispered, "and you'll be _begging_ for her complexion. Only, instead of **SNEAK**, yours will say something to the effect of **SCREAMS _DADDY_ IN THE THROES OF PASSION**."

"Y-you wouldn't," she stuttered, her face reddening.

"Don't tempt me," he answered. "_Ciao_."

* * *

Hermione felt a hand shaking her. No, she refused to wake up. It felt too good to sleep at last. 

"Hermione!"

Damn. That insistent, shaking hand would just not leave her alone. She turned her head away and buried it in her pillow. "Go away," she mumbled.

"Hermione," the voice continued. _Shake, shake, shake. _"Come on! You have to get up. What's wrong with you?"

She turned to the owner of the voice and looked up through squinted eyes. It was Ginny, already dressed and looking highly concerned from behind a curtain of gleaming red hair.

"Hermione!" Ginny said again.

"Okay!" she yelled. Ouch. Yelling made her head hurt. "What time is it?"

"A quarter past seven," Ginny answered.

_That_ certainly got her attention. She sat up quickly, her hand going to her messy hair.

"It's the last day of classes," Ginny said. Ginny's voice seemed very loud. "I couldn't figure out why you weren't at breakfast. I had no idea you'd still be in bed."

Hermione crawled out of bed lazily and began stretching. She closed her eyes and yawned deeply. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that Ginny was staring at her as though she had sprouted antlers.

"Holy _shite_," Ginny whispered.

"What?" Hermione asked, the back of her hand going to her cheek. "Do I have drool all over my face or something?"

Ginny said nothing. She simply grabbed Hermione by the arm and dragged her over to the mirror. Hermione looked up and let out a startled cry.

Someone in the mirror was looking back at her blankly, but that could not have been _her_. A ponytail holder held a lump of hair at the side of her head, but most of her hair had escaped from it and was twisted and tangled about her face. She looked as though someone had punched her square in both eyes. There were rings of purple all around her eyes, sagging into deep bags just above her cheekbones. Her cheeks were dark and hollow. Her lips were pale and dry and cracked.

"Holy shite," she whispered, echoing Ginny's sentiment precisely. "I can't go to class like this."

Ginny plunked a chair down in front of the dresser. "Sit," she demanded. Hermione did as she was told, utterly speechless at the sight of her reflection. Ginny picked up a brush and began working with the fuzzy knots of hair.

"Now I want you to tell me," Ginny said, giving the brush a futile yank, "_exactly_ what's going on."

No, she couldn't tell Ginny. She didn't want to tell anyone. This romance column was her secret—her treasure—and she didn't want to share it with _anyone_. It was hers and hers alone. But look what it had done to her!

"I've just been busy," she replied weakly.

"Busy, my _arse_." Ginny pulled and pulled at the lump of hair. She was trying to be gentle, but it didn't matter. Hermione's head was already dully aching. "I'm in my O.W.L. year, Hermione. I know _busy_, and this is more than busy. This is just plain _scary_."

Hermione had to agree. Surely this had not happened overnight. Why hadn't Lavender or Parvati confronted her? Oh yeah, Lavender _did_ say something the night before, but Hermione thought she was just being catty.

"Haven't you been sleeping?" Ginny asked.

"I slept last night," she replied. Her lips were chapped, and it hurt to move them too much.

"I haven't even seen you since Wednesday morning," Ginny went on. "When have you been eating?"

"I haven't."

Ginny sighed heavily. She had finally managed to get most of the tangles out of Hermione's fussy hair, and she began twisting it into a loose bun.

"I'm taking you to Madame Pomfrey," Ginny announced.

Hermione glanced over towards her overflowing book bag.

"Oh, no, forget your books," Ginny said. "I doubt you'll be going to classes today. Come on. I'll help you to the hospital wing before my Transfiguration class."

Hermione silently obeyed. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, she paused and looked down at her disheveled robes.

"Don't worry," Ginny assured her. "There's nobody in the common room right now. They're all at breakfast. Let's just _go_."

Ginny dragged her along speechlessly. They didn't stop until they reached the hospital wing. Luckily, they hadn't run into anyone in the corridors. Ginny marched along, glancing around for Madame Pomfrey and pulling Hermione along behind her. She found Madame Pomfrey at last, who looked down at Hermione and gave a little shriek.

"My dear," she said, placing a hand on Hermione's forehead, "are you ill?"

Hermione hated for people to fuss over her. "I feel fine," she lied.

"Well, you certainly don't _look_ fine. Go lie down, Miss Granger. I'll be with you in a moment. I can take it from here, Miss Weasley. Thank you for seeing Miss Granger up here safely."

Ginny nodded, gave Hermione one last wary glance, and then headed for the door.

Hermione lay down and put her arm over her face, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight that streamed in through the windows. She felt cold and shaky and numb, all at the same time. She hated to worry anyone, but she was especially glad that Ginny had intervened. The thought of her reflection haunted her, and she shuddered involuntarily.

"Now," Madame Pomfrey's voice demanded from above her, "tell me how on earth you managed to work yourself into such a state, Miss Granger."

"It's a project I've been working on," she answered. "I just lost track of time, I guess."

"When did you last eat?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment. "I had a glass of orange juice on Wednesday morning," she said. From the look on Madame Pomfrey's face, that was not an acceptable answer. She continued, "And I've had quite a bit of coffee."

"Coffee? How _much_ coffee?"

"I don't know. I've been filling up a thermos before dinner and sneaking it into the library."

"You're much too young to be drinking coffee," Madame Pomfrey asserted. "I've told the Headmaster it's not a good idea to offer coffee at mealtimes. I suppose he expects you students to practice a little _moderation_."

Hermione felt very small and ashamed all of a sudden. It was certainly not like her to be so out-of-control.

"First things first," Madame Pomfrey said. She tapped her wand on the bedside table, and a small feast appeared—a huge bowl of steaming soup, a chunk of bread, a colorful plate of mixed fruits, and a pitcher of milk. "I want you to eat every bite. And then rest. I'll send a note to your professors excusing you from classes today."

She walked away in a huff, mumbling something about coffee. Hermione stared down at the food. She _was_ a bit hungry, though she had now reached the point of hunger where one is actually sickened by the thought of eating. She poured herself a glass of milk and drank it slowly. It tasted like honey nectar to her, and her appetite suddenly took her over full-force. She ate as though she had never eaten before, nearly choking on a mouthful of bread and grapes. She ate until every crumb was gone, and she even picked up the bowl like a mug so she could drain the remnants of the smooth, flavorful soup. She thought it might have contained a smidgeon of Pepper-Up Potion because she suddenly felt completely rejuvenated and relaxed.

She wiped her mouth on a napkin and lay back down, her belly full and her eyes heavy. She hated to miss class, but she just couldn't keep her eyes open...

* * *

Friday afternoon. 2:47pm. Ancient Runes, the last class before the break began. Where the hell was Granger? She wasn't in Potions, and she wasn't in Arithmancy. Blaise had not seen her all day. Just when he had the perfect ammunition, the little wench disappeared. It figured. 

Professor Coda was moving about the classroom passing out parchments. Just as she reached the back of the classroom and began to hand Blaise one of the papers, Granger burst through the door.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she whispered. Her hair was wet and hung in little spirals down the back of her robes. She appeared to have just gotten out of a bath, thrown on some clothes haphazardly, and raced to class. She was out of breath.

"Miss Granger," Professor Coda whispered back very softly. Blaise tried to eavesdrop without looking too suspicious. "I received a note from Madame Pomfrey saying you would be absent this afternoon."

"I'm feeling better now," she whispered. "I'm sorry I'm late. I just _couldn't_ miss Ancient Runes."

_That little goody-two-shoe brown-noser_, Blaise thought.

"That's okay, dear. Take these parchments and have a seat by Mr Zabini."

Blaise felt his stomach drop somewhere around his knees. Granger sat down and handed him one of the parchments, an odd little twinkle in her eye. It was almost as if she had _planned_ this.

"Okay, class," Professor Coda said, "I've just given you your holiday assignment." She began pacing back to her desk at the front of the classroom. "These are very difficult hieroglyphs, so I'm going to allow you to begin now. Please work quietly. If you have a question, feel free to bring your parchment up to my desk. I would remind you, however, that this is N.E.W.T.-level material, and I will be offering less assistance as the year progresses. You may begin."

Blaise opened his textbook and dipped his quill in his ink bottle, but he found that he could not seem to concentrate at all on the characters in front of him. He could smell Granger's soap—a very light mixture of honey and patchouli—and it was far more distracting than he wanted to admit to himself. He leaned down over his parchment, his wavy, shoulder-length hair covering the side of his face as he tried to steal a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Was she okay? Should he ask? Ugh...maybe it was a female problem, and in that case, he didn't want to know about it.

She thrust a piece of parchment on top of his textbook page, nearly causing him to jump out of his seat. He looked over at her. She was nodding towards the parchment. He looked down and saw her perfect, neat little handwriting right in front of him.

_Did I miss anything in Arithmancy?_

He looked back at her. He didn't know quite what to do. She opened her eyes more widely in expectation and made a little gesture with her hand. Damn. He was not going to be able to ignore her. He wrote back in his best handwriting, which was still nearly illegible.

_You can borrow my notes if you like._

She looked somewhat surprised but smiled slightly at him. She leaned over and began to write back, just below his last sentence.

_Are you staying at Hogwarts during the break?_

He centered the parchment between them, somewhat hoping that this was not going to turn into a full-blown conversation on paper. Although the idea did interest him just a bit. It was strangely liberating to communicate this way. It gave him time to formulate the perfect words.

_Yes._

_Me too. Maybe we could go over them one night in the library?_

_Maybe so._

Sweet Merlin, he felt so guilty. If she only knew what he had planned for her. He almost felt bad about it, until he read her next statement. It had absolutely nothing to do with either Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.

_You're quite the buzz in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory._

What the hell? Okay. So she wanted to start playing again. He was fine with that. In fact, he was prepared.

_My one true mission in life._

_You know, what with your recent_ _activities._

_What activities?_

_Spare me, Zabini._

_Oh, those activities._

_Not to mention the pair of green underwear that was supposedly found in Greenhouse 3 the other morning._

He almost chuckled. Padma just_ had_ to leave something behind as evidence, didn't she?

_That wasn't me._

_Oh, really?_

_I don't own green underwear._

_Right. A Slytherin with no green underwear._

_Well, I don't normally wear underwear at all._

He had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. She was so flustered that she almost knocked her ink bottle over. She didn't write back for a minute. He waited, holding his breath.

_Did you know that you bear the title of "Hogwarts Deflowerer"?_

For pity's sake, not _that_ again. He made a mental note to swap Millicent Bulstrode's shampoo with wart cream.

_So I've heard._

_Is it true?_

_I don't kiss and tell._

_Come on._

_Besides, I'm currently closed for business_.

_Why the change of heart?_

_More trouble than it's worth._

_Trouble?_

_Why, Granger, I would almost think you were propositioning me._

_Never._

_Never say never._

They looked at each other. He remained expressionless. She was bearing that newfound smirk. This wasn't a battle. It was outright war. She hesitated, and then wrote back, her script a little smaller than before.

_So, what's it like?_

_What?_

_You know._

_No._

She exhaled loudly and grabbed the parchment from him. They were running out of room. She flipped it over, cast an empty glance at him, and then wrote something, carefully shielding the parchment from him with her arm. When she returned it to him, she looked away.

_Sex._

The word was written so tiny that he had to lean down very close to the parchment to read it. And when he did, he grinned. He couldn't help himself. In fact, he almost chuckled. Damn, this girl had _guts_. It was shocking and strangely arousing. He didn't even mind when she turned back and met his stare with bright crimson cheeks. Did she expect him to put down all the gory details on _paper_? He looked straight into her cinnamon-coloured eyes as he moved his quill across the parchment.

_I'd be happy to show you._

Despite her maddeningly flushed cheeks, despite her now trembling hand, she recklessly wrote back. He had to admire her for it.

_I thought you were "closed for business"._

_I'd be willing to make an exception._

_Never mind._

_What's the matter, Granger? Scared?_

_That word is not in the Gryffindor vocabulary._

_This piece of parchment is becoming a bit incriminating for my taste. Perhaps we should get to it. (to Ancient Runes, I mean.)_

_I agree._

_So you'll leave me alone, then?_

_Wouldn't that be like admitting defeat?_

_Oh, were we playing?_

_Maybe. Who won?_

_I'll give you this one Granger, just to shut you up._

_How kind of you. So then it's: Granger 2, Zabini 1._

_I see I owe you one._

_I'm sure you'll think of something._

_Indeed. Constant vigilance._

She crumpled up the piece of parchment and stuffed it into her bag. He rather wished she would set fire to it. He had a strange idea that she might do just that once they were dismissed from class. They both tried to work on their hieroglyphs. Neither one of them seemed to make any progress. First it was Potions, and now it was Ancient Runes. If she kept this up, he would never be able to study properly again. Maybe that was her plan.

Professor Coda dismissed them, and Granger practically bolted from the classroom. Again, he felt a small tinge of guilt. _If only she knew._

* * *

Hermione awoke before anyone else on Saturday morning and strolled off to have a bath. She vowed to herself that—no matter how inspired she became, and no matter how busy she was—she would never ignore her appearance as she had done for the past few weeks. That person she had seen in the mirror yesterday morning had been like a cross between a pikey and a zombie. And she vowed to _never_ drink coffee again. She didn't understand how Zabini seemed to live off of the stuff. 

She sunk down into the steamy water and allowed her mind to wander back to the "parchment war" in Ancient Runes. She giggled to herself. If someone had told her a year ago that she would be exchanging crude quips of innuendo with a Slytherin, she would have laughed herself silly. However, she was intrigued by him. In all her years of being verbally assaulted and harangued by Malfoy and his minions, she had never once seen Zabini among them. She thought back on Umbridge's Inquisatorial Squad. As far as she knew, Zabini had not been a part of that, either. And if he had really shagged Lisa Turpin, as Parvati had commented, then he must not be too prejudiced against Muggle-borns. Well, he might have been. It seemed that men would happily insert their penises into anything that was willing—Muggle-borns, old women, goats, even each other. But still, it made her think of Zabini in a slightly different light.

She dressed and went to breakfast. She wanted to beat the rush and get to Hogsmeade before she was forced into saying her farewells to Harry and Ron. She didn't even want to see them. She really should say goodbye to Ginny, but even that thought bothered her a bit. She was still somewhat embarrassed that Ginny had seen her in such an unattractive mental and physical state.

After eating a balanced breakfast of porridge, bananas and orange juice, she headed out into the crisp, cold outdoors and down the path to Hogsmeade. She had set up a postal drawer in the name of Rowena Ravvish on their first Hogsmeade weekend, and she was hoping that her prize money of a hundred galleons had arrived. She was planning on using it to buy Christmas presents, and she might as well owl her romance column to _Witch Weekly_ while she was there. This was one piece of post that she really did not feel comfortable owling from Hogwarts.

The prize money had indeed arrived, and she looked down at it with an overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment. She had earned every Galleon herself. She had competed, and—thanks to a type of cleverness that she didn't even know she possessed—she had triumphed over both amateur housewives and seasoned writers alike. The irony of the situation was not lost on her. She had won, and she had never even gone farther than kissing Krum on the lips.

She pulled out a handful of coins and put them in her pocket, and then she carefully stowed the rest in a hidden pocket in her bag. She needed to owl her story, so she aimed her wand at her bag and whispered a soft _Finito Incantatem_. Her stomach did a slight somersault. The brown envelope did not appear. She had not even thought about it since Thursday night—she was just so thrilled to finally be finished with the damn thing—but she had certainly expected it to be there, and it wasn't. She tried not to panic. Perhaps, she thought logically, it had gotten mixed up with the textbooks and papers she had removed from her bag that morning. After all, it was still under the _Coperto_ charm. She scolded herself for not checking to make sure it was in her bag before she got all the way into Hogsmeade. Oh well, the deadline wasn't until 15 January, and she was sure it was hidden somewhere in the pile of books on her bed.

She sauntered into shop after shop, purchasing Christmas presents and proudly plunking down her hard-earned money. It felt so good to be independent. She bought a five-pound parcel of assorted sweets for Ron, and she purchased and earthy, low-cut Missoni jumper for Ginny. Ginny had taken quite a liking to Muggle clothing, and she wore it all so well. Harry was trickier. She suspiciously fondled a book on controlling one's temper, but she didn't think that was an appropriate Christmas gift. She finally settled on a coffee-table book of wizards who had fought against and defeated the Dark Arts.

Her last stop was Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, where she studied several different models of Quick-Notes Quills. They were very expensive, and she really did not want to spend all the rest of her prize money in one place. As she stood there examining them, a cold, listless voice issued from behind her.

"Well, well, if it isn't Granger."

She turned around and glared into the steely grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. Merlin, she couldn't even do some simple shopping without being harassed.

"All by yourself?" he drawled.

She did not at all like the tone of voice he was using. It was even more menacing, if possible, than his normal condescending inflection. She said nothing. He circled her slowly, his eyes roving up and down shamelessly over her small frame. Goyle and Theodore Nott stood nearby looking antagonistic but slightly bored.

"You're not going home for the holidays?" he inquired.

"No," she replied simply. Why on earth was he looking at her like that? She tried to straighten herself under his stare, her chin thrust into the air boldly.

"Neither am I," he said bitterly, "seeing as my father is still in _Azkaban_."

"Where he _deserves_ to be," she fearlessly commented.

She didn't know how it happened, but suddenly—forcefully—his right hand began digging into her ribs just below her breast. She was too shocked to say anything. She was just trying to assess the fact that Malfoy was actually _touching_ her when she felt one of his fingers brush against the bottom curve of her breast. She stared at him, speechless.

"Maybe _you_ deserve to be taught a lesson as well, Mudblood," he whispered.

She reached in her pocket for her wand. He anticipated her move and gripped her wrist painfully. She did the only thing in the world that she could think to do at that moment. She worked a large quantity of saliva to her lips and _spat_ all over his pointy little face. It had the desired effect. He let go of her at once, wiping his face as he stumbled backwards into Goyle and Nott.

She did not wait for him to recover. She scooped up her bags and bolted from the shop, running as fast as she could away from Hogsmeade and away from the thought of Malfoy's hands on her body.

She did not bother looking back. Her brain was in overdrive, hopelessly attempting to process the details of what had just happened. He would have never tried something like that in the halls of Hogwarts. He was such an underhanded little bastard. She made another vow to herself—to never again go into Hogsmeade alone. It wasn't fair! She should be able to go anywhere she liked.

"Granger!" called a deep voice as she made her way across the courtyard.

Just great. Zabini was the last person on earth that she wanted to talk to right now, but nonetheless, he was sauntering casually towards her, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his black hair tousled in the icy wind. She stared at him, still out of breath and flustered by the events of the past fifteen minutes.

He reached in his bag and pulled out a small bundle of parchment. He handed it to her nonchalantly. "Arithmancy notes," he explained. Then he noticed her furied distraction. She was surprised to find that he looked worried, his eyebrows forming a thick, black line above his cornflower-blue eyes. "Are you okay?"

She took the notes from him, still panting. "Fine," she answered breathlessly.

"Are you sure?" He looked really, genuinely concerned, and it stumped her.

She paused. Her bags were heavy, and she couldn't think clearly. "What do you care?" she spat.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk away.

"If you must know," she called after him, suddenly wanting to tell_ someon_e what had happened, "I just had quite an interesting conversation with Malfoy."

He whipped around. Concern quickly transformed into anger. His eyes went from violet-blue to charcoal-navy. "Really?" he said.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" she continued.

He surveyed her eyes intently. "I know he's an unscrupulous little git," Zabini said. "And he seems to have an unhealthy obsession with _you_ lately."

"Hmph," she replied. Zabini just looked at her, his eyes glowing fiercely with what uncannily appeared to be hatred.

"You know," Zabini went on, "I wouldn't be opposed to returning him to his ferret form permanently...if you requested it."

"But he's in your House," she said, completely confused. "And he's a prefect. Sure you wouldn't—"

"Just say the word, Granger."

She was speechless, once again. The way he was looking at her...it was almost like he was willing to _protect_ her, to _stand up_ for her. Where was this coming from?

"Thanks anyway, Zabini," she said. "I'll have these notes back to you by tomorrow night."

He nodded slightly and watched as she walked away.

Before long, Malfoy was the least of her worries. She stood in her empty dormitory room frantically screaming _Finito Incantatem_s at everything in sight. She sifted through all of her papers, she overturned and flipped through textbooks, and she rummaged in her now-empty book bag for the millionth time. The brown envelope containing her story was nowhere to be found. All that work—and a near-nervous-breakdown—and she had nothing to show for it.

She sat down on her bed at last, trembling horribly with rage, and tried to retrace her steps. It was impossible. It could be anywhere. Since she had performed the _Coperto _charm, she had been all over the school. The library, the dormitory, the Great Hall, the hospital wing, Ancient Runes, _Hogsmeade_. With a very nauseating ache in the pit of her abdomen, she considered the fact that her story could now be _anywhere_. She tried to compose herself. At least, she reasoned, it was invisible. If it had fallen out of her bag at some point, maybe no one would ever find it. Then again, neither would _she_. And if someone did find it, she really needn't be that concerned. There were no identifying links to _he_r anywhere in the contents. She had signed the cover letter _Rowena Ravvish_.

She tried to convince herself that this was not such a big deal. Maybe someone _would_ find it, and they would owl it to _Witch Weekly_ without even looking inside. It was doubtful, but it could happen. The problem was that she would never know! She would simply have to rewrite it. It would take a bit of effort, but she had three weeks without any distractions. The hard part—the mere construction of the story—was over. If she tried hard enough, she was sure she could re-create it. She stuffed her bag with empty parchment and headed for the library.

* * *

Saturday night. 10:34pm. The library. Granger was at it _again_. Great Merlin! Blaise almost felt sorry for her. _Nah_. That wasn't sympathy that grumbled in his chest. It was the prowling panther, poised to attack. This was it...the moment he had been waiting for since Thursday night. If only Malfoy hadn't intervened. Granger didn't tell him what happened, but he took one look at her face and knew. That bloody bastard. How _dar_e he put his hands on Blaise's soon-to-be-won trophy? Blaise had never known he could feel such fury. He had, however, taken care of the problem. And now his moment of glory had come. 

With his bag tossed over his shoulder and a confident gait, he paced slowly over to the table where Granger was sitting, her hand flying over the parchment like wildfire. She did not even look up. It was slightly pathetic. He pulled out a chair and sat down right in front of her, his fingers casually laced together. He didn't say anything. He waited on her, and sure enough...

"I don't have time to play with you, Zabini."

"Granger," he said slowly, "you might be interested in what I have to say."

"Unless Malfoy is dead, or you've found something that belongs to me, I don't want to hear it."

She didn't even look up. He had to get her attention...and her trust.

"Malfoy won't be bothering you anymore," he commented dryly.

It worked. She looked up at him. She did not respond, but he saw the curiosity in her eyes and continued.

"I put a binding on him. He will find that he no longer has the ability to speak to you...or touch you...and if he does, he _will_ regret it."

She stopped writing, sat back, and crossed her arms. She stared at him curiously. "A binding," she repeated. "That's ancient magic. I've read about it. How did _you_ learn to do it?"

"My mother is French, and she's from the old school of thought."

"She didn't go to Hogwarts?"

"She didn't go to _any_ kind of school."

Granger looked intrigued. "And your father?"

"Slytherin. My grandfather brought his family here from Milan when my father was just a child."

"So you're a first-generation Englishman, huh?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "_Son'italiano, per primo e per sempre_."

He watched her shiver at the sound of his native tongue. "First and always an Italian," she replied with a grin.

He nodded slightly, very impressed that she had understood him. "But I'm not here to talk about _la mia familiglia_."

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows as though entreating him to continue.

"I need you help," he said plainly.

"My help," she uttered with a laugh. "Right."

"Do you know anything about Art History?"

"A little bit. Why?"

He proceeded to explain, and he allowed no emotion whatsoever to play across his face. "It's the topic of study this year in Muggle Studies. The professor seems to think it contains a lot of beneficial information on general history and mythology."

"That's _generally_ why people study it," she answered sarcastically.

"Yes, well...I'm just having a spot of trouble with it. It's all a bunch of Bible stories, you know. And my parents aren't exactly devout Catholics."

"I see," she said, studying him carefully. "And you think that _I_ know all about Bible stories because...?"

"You're Muggle-born, aren't you?"

"You mean I'm a _Mudblood_?" she spat viciously.

He cringed and stared her straight in the eyes. "I don't like that word, Granger," he replied softly. "Please never use it around me again. I hear enough of it as it is, believe me." And it was the truth.

She shrugged. "My parents are Atheists," she said with a smirk.

Damn, he had to hand it to her. She was good. He thought he would test her, just to see how good she really was. "Never mind," he whispered, and he got up to leave.

"Wait!" she said. "Sit back down, Zabini."

Hmmm. . .so she wasn't that good after all. The poor thing couldn't call a bluff. He sat back down, resuming his exact former position.

"I know a little bit about it," she said. "And I could do some extra reading, I guess. But why in the world are you asking _me_?"

That was exactly what he had hoped she would ask. He bored holes into her eyes with his and responded blandly, "I kind of like you, Granger."

"My life is now complete," she tossed back at him sardonically. "_Really_, Zabini. Flattery will get you nowhere. Don't say things you don't mean."

"How do you know I don't mean it?"

"How do I know the sun is going to rise tomorrow?" she quipped. "Spare me. You are a Slytherin. You couldn't be honest if someone fed you a gallon of Veritaserum."

He said nothing. He simply watched her turn the idea over in her clever little mind, and he waited. It would be soon.

"This would require a lot of extra research on my part. Not to mention the fact that I'm very busy at the moment," she said, gesturing to the pile of parchment in front of her.

He waited. He was more than ready to pounce. If only she would say those five little words. And then she did.

_"What's in it for me?"_

Ah, yes. Sweet glory. He licked his lips and smiled. "How _very_ Slytherin of you," he clearly and slowly iterated. "I thought you'd never ask."

She raised on eyebrow.

"I'll tell you what's in it for you," he whispered triumphantly, leaning over the table so that their noses nearly collided, "_Rowena Ravvish_."

In his wildest dreams, his darkest fantasies, he could never have anticipated such success. Her jaw dropped and the color left her cheeks like spiders fleeing from a basilisk. He almost felt sorry for her. He thought for a moment that she had stopped breathing. He waved one hand in front of her face. "Are you still with me, Granger?"

She nodded slowly.

"Good." He pulled the envelope from his bag and tossed it onto the table. "_That_," he said, "is quite a brilliant piece of writing. You should tell _Witch Weekly_ to sod off and start writing novels. Granted, it's not _my_ favourite genre, but it's very good, nonetheless. Did you really write it?

More speechless nodding.

"I'm impressed. Your exposition is fantastic. You really leave me wanting more. Your heroine is so _real_...even _humourous_, which totally surprises me coming from you. And your leading man is so—" Again, he leaned very close to her. "I don't know. What's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes..._familiar_."

He finally heard a slight sound escape her lips, somewhere between a gurgle and a sob. He chuckled. This was even better than _coffee_. Hell, it was better than coffee and sex and the smell of old books put together. She was totally floored. He wanted to get up and run around the table, cheering for himself. _Blaise Zabini has caught the Snitch. Slytherin wins. _It was so cruel, but it was just so damn funny.

"Really, Granger," he whispered. He gently reached over and lifted her chin. "There, that's better. You're kind of pretty, you know, when your mouth isn't gaping open like that."

She simply would not say anything. He wondered if he should poke her. She appeared to have gone into some type of trance.

"Hermione Granger speechless," he said. "I'll have to write this one down."

Still no reply.

"Anyway, getting back to your little _(ahem!)_ story," he said with a cough. "I really am impressed. I think my favourite part was the scene in the file room. You know, where the tall, skinny bloke with _curly black hair_ had his girlfriend up against the filing cabinet and her pelvis—how did you put it?—oh, yes..._lashed out at him uncontrollably_. That's quite descriptive. And once again, _oddly familiar_. I would almost venture to think—"

"OKAY!!!" she screamed at last. Madame Pince gave them a reproachful look that caused her to lower her voice a bit. "Okay, okay, _okay_! So I saw you in the fiction section with Padma Patil! I didn't have anything else to write about. I mean, don't think for a moment that I _fancy_ you or anything. In fact—just for the record—_I HATE YOU_."

"Strong words, Granger, he replied calmly. "But I'm glad to see your tongue is still working. I was beginning to worry."

"What do you want?" she demanded beneath her breath. "Money? Homework? _Sex_?"

He chuckled. He could have sworn that she said that last part almost hopefully. "I don't need money, Granger. And I'm smart enough to do my own homework. And if you would _like_ to have sex, I'd be more than happy to oblige you. But it's certainly not _required_."

She was shaking her head at him, completely tongue-tied.

"Like I said," he went on, "I need your help with Muggle Studies. And in return, I will be willing to keep your little secret, Miss Ravvish. With two Vs."

He had gone too far. He thought he was about to get slapped very hard across the face, so he got up quickly and grabbed his bag.

"Are Monday evenings good for you?" he asked. "Around 7:30?"

"Perfect," she said, grinding her teeth and looking homicidal.

"Good. Then it's a deal. We'll start a week from Monday with Italian Renaissance Sculpture. Meet me in the Room of Requirements."

"The Room of Requirements?"

"Of course. We'll need a slide projector, won't we? And some comfortable chairs.....Maybe a filing cabinet."

He definitely should not have added the part about the filing cabinet. He saw her reach in her robe for her wand.

"By the way," he said quickly with a wink, "I think we're tied again."

* * *

**A/N: ****OKAY!** Before you have a chance to criticize me on the _staccato_ nature of what you've just read, let me remind you that this is my first fic. I decided to experiment a bit with pacing and point-of-view. I hope it worked. I'm sure you probably caught the blatantly obvious and overtly cheesy _Godfather _reference. I couldn't help myself. (:D) And I hope you don't hate Blaise for being so merciless. I _told _you people not to feel too sorry for him! 

**AND NOW THAT I'VE SET THE STAGE** for the coming chapters, I regret to inform you that I will be on holiday 1-9 October. Also, my 1990 Toyota Camry has unexpectedly bit the dust, so I foresee some automobile shopping in my future. I probably won't get around to updating for a few weeks, even though the next 2 chapters are already written in longhand. Please don't give up on me! I _do_ have definite plans for this little story. And I thought that THIS was a particularly nasty little place to leave you hanging.

_Grazie e fino a presto,  
__--tamlane_

* * *

**trova!:** Thank you for the awesome compliment!

**Zaralya: **Yeah, I'm pretty turned on by "accidentally flirting!Blaise" myself. Thanks for reviewing!

**Echidne and Jyestha:** There is no way on earth I would make Hermione a love-starved schoolgirl. We all know she's way too smart for that.

**Louise: **YAY! A real, true O&U girl! To answer your question, I plan on updating once weekly. Most of this story is actually already written, but it's in longhand. It takes freaking forever to type it up, but that's just the way I write. Thanks for the review!

**Alenor: **Yep, I think Hermione knows. Thanks for your dedication to my little fic.

**antisocial mint:** Wonderful! There is definitely something going on with Harry, but you won't find out until much later. And yes, Blaise is a product of fanon. I am really going to laugh if JKR turns him into a witch doctor from Zimbabwe or something. (Not that that would be bad...)

**Kurayami Pansa:** You're always so nice. I'm dedicating this chapter to you!

**Pallas Athena1: **Yep, game is on. Nothing sexier than a man who needs to be tamed, in my opinion. We'll see how Hermione does when I toss her the whip. And as for Priscilla Pernicia...my lips are sealed. Thanks for the review! By the way, if you don't update _Grey_ soon, I will be forced to exact my revenge. I don't know exactly what that will be yet. But it will not be pretty!

**ALSO,** I have updated my manifesto on my bio page, for anyone who's interested. I know I should just go ahead and start a livejournal, but I am SO scared of COMMITMENT! teehee.


	6. From Abraham to Judith

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**Spoilers: **All 5 books. And if you haven't yet read your way through OOTP, then you might consider crawling out of that cave you're living in.

**A/N: Hmmm. **I don't know about this chapter. Now we begin to get to the meat-and-bones of these characters and their situation. I fully expect to lose some of you by the wayside, particularly since I am using art history and Biblical references as a platform for HG/BZ to begin to open up to one another. Some of you will get bored. I just don't know. Thanks in advance to those who stick around. An even bigger thanks to those who review.

* * *

_**Diagon Venus**_

**Chapter 6 – From Abraham to Judith**

"_A trouble that can't be named  
__A tiger's waiting to be tamed"  
__--Coldplay_

Before the end of the weekend, before she even had a chance to recover—and _way_ before the deadline for Part I—Hermione was already hard at work on Part II of her column. As it turned out, the leading man was hopelessly possessed by demons that caused him to think and act like a complete imbecile. Yes, her heroine would just have to deal with the fact that the object of her affections was a heartless, lying, sneaking, emotionless, sinister, ruthless, prowling, malicious, perverse little_ prat_.

An even at that, she thought she was being gracious.

Yet deep down—_very _deep down—she could not dispel the idea that he had done this to her because he might have actually liked her. Sure, it seemed to be a very wild stretch of the imagination, but it did not seem to be impossible.

She reviewed the situation. When in doubt, make a list.

1. He had found her Potions notes, and they had obviously taken him by surprise. But he didn't post them on the notice board. No, he simply returned them to her, even though it made him blush.

2. For some odd reason, he had decided to flirt with her. Or maybe he was just tormenting her. But that didn't seem very characteristic of him. He was no Malfoy.

3. She had flirted back, with a slick wit and a merciless bravado that she did not know she possessed.

4. He had swiped her story. She would get back to that one.

5. He had allowed her to make a fool of herself on parchment in Ancient Runes. But that was kind of her fault. She _had_ encouraged him.

6. He had waited until she was desperately rewriting her story, and then he had confronted her. And bribed her. Without any sign of remorse.

Yes, he was possessed by demons. That was the only logical explanation.

She tried to look at it from a different perspective. In the past two weeks, this poor, quiet little Slytherin had been knocked to the ground by a hysterical female, used for sexual favors by an engaged Ravenclaw, tormented about said Ravenclaw by none other than herself, and then written about as though he was a piece of meat. Okay, she could see how that might lead to some bitterness, but it was still no excuse.

Damn. Anyway she looked at it, she couldn't tell whose fault it really was. But he definitely should not have taken her story—her _treasure_—and then used it against her so vilely.

There was _one_ thing working in his favor and one way in which he was as good as his word. Draco Malfoy attempted to hurl an insult at her on Sunday morning, and he found himself in quite a predicament as a result. Now Malfoy was not only stuck at Hogwarts for Christmas with a father locked away in Azkaban. He was also lying in the hospital wing with his lips curiously sealed together. For once in her life, Hermione actually _wished_ that Malfoy would try to put his hands on her, just so she could witness the outcome. When the incident had occurred, Zabini had caught her eye and winked at her. Ha! He was obviously intent on protecting the subject of his heartless bribe. For all it was worth, she couldn't figure out if that was a pro or a con. At the moment, however, with the memory of the ferret's shocked expression still running through her mind like a sugar high, it seemed to be a pro.

Either way, she quickly learned that it was very difficult to stay angry at Zabini.

He lurked about the library quietly and casually—almost _too_ casually—and he watched her with a miniscule smile as she flipped through Gardner's _Art through the Ages_. He never approached her. No. He simply leaned against the bookshelves, his unnaturally tall frame carelessly poised and arrogant, just _looking_. She tried not to meet his stare. Every time he looked at her like that, she was torn between slapping the living daylights out of him and throwing him to the carpet in a passionate frenzy. She hated it. And she loved it.

And to think that a month ago, she had barely known he existed! Then again, a month ago she was still knitting hats for house-elves.

Why on earth had she responded to that call for entries? The answer was simple. She had no idea she would _win_. Oh, if she had only known what it would be like to catch Zabini in a moment of passion, to see her wasted reflection gaze at her out of a mirror, to feel the trauma and the glory of sweet surrender to a muse that was beyond her—she would have _burned_ that edition of the _Daily Prophet _on the spot. And then she would have done it all over again. She thought about housewives like Mrs Weasley sitting by the fire, growing aroused by her own words and ideas, and it was all worth it. She couldn't wait until Part I was published, just to see if the name Rowena Ravvish crossed the lips of anyone she knew. It was almost like being immortal, even if it _was _just a worthless column in _Witch Weekly_. Hell, no one would probably ever even read it, other than Zabini.

On Christmas Eve, she was hard at work in the library. She pushed the art history books aside and picked up her quill to write. Sometimes, when she looked at those ancient sculptures, she became even more aroused than she had been when she flipped through the _Kama Sutra_ on that fateful night. The artists of the Italian Renaissance, in particular, really knew how to portray the human body. Chiseled and carved out of marble, or cast into bronze, the figures seemed to twist and writhe despite the rocks and metal in which they were imprisoned. Six hundred years after the fact, and they still had not managed to free themselves. Occasionally, she understood exactly how that felt. Also, Michelangelo's _David_ had a great arse.

She was thinking about _David_'s arse when she felt a tickling purr at her earlobe. She whipped her head around and found herself face-to-face with Zabini. His black curls hung across his cheek, his face only inches from hers. Why did he feel the need to get so _close_ to her? She could see the creases in his bottom lip. He didn't smile. He _never_ smiled, lest it be that very slight curve at the corners of his mouth—more of a satisfied, self-righteous half-gleam on his face than a real smile. At least it was not a _smirk_.

"Writing again, Miss Ravvish?" he asked quietly.

She clenched her jaw and watched his eyes smolder. "_Don't_ call me that," she commanded in a whisper.

"So you think you're the one calling the shots here, do you?"

Still no smirk. No smile. No sign of emotion whatsoever on his olive face, except in those unearthly blue eyes.

She chuckled. "As long as you're failing Muggle Studies, I_ know_ I'm the one calling the shots."

He shifted a little bit uneasily. She could tell she had hit a nerve. He placed his hand on the table by her parchment and leaned his weight on it. Why did he have to be so tall, so domineering? Why did his fingers have to be so long and thick and dark? It just wasn't fair.

"I'm not _failing_," he asserted. She could see his jaw working. "Zabinis do not _fail_ at _anything_."

And now she understood that he was not just talking about Muggle Studies.

"Whatever," she said, waving her writing hand in his face. "I'm busy."

"I can see that," he answered. "I just wanted to make sure you would be ready for Monday night."

She slid her chair away from him in order to get a more definitive look at his face. He refused to back down. So did she.

"Monday night? _I can't wait_," she responded, raising one eyebrow.

Then it happened. It was very small—barely noticeable—but a tiny smile crossed his lips.

"Neither can I," he whispered. "Happy Christmas, Granger." And then he was gone.

He had achieved his obvious goal. She was completely rattled. _Why_ did he have to do things like that? It made it nearly impossible for her to properly hate him. In fact, she found that she could get no farther than simply despising him.

She tried to get back to her column, but a sudden realization halted her progress. She remembered the dream she had that night in the library after finishing Part I. It had made no sense at the time, but everything suddenly clicked into place. In the dream, she had been stretched out on a desk, a body—Zabini's body, she now realized—nearly on top of her. And that purr at her ear. . . . So _that_ was when he had robbed her of her secret! She had thought the library was empty, but he had apparently been there, lurking about. He had seen her perform the _Coperto_ charm, and his curiosity had gotten the best of him. And that soft rattle at her ear in her dream. . . that was _Zabini_. The fact that he would do it _again_ was like an admission. She found herself wondering once more if that was a pro or a con. And overall, she discovered that she really didn't care. Or at least, she didn't want to think about it any more.

She packed her things and took out the brown envelope. It was sealed, addressed, and ready to go. At last, her moment of reckoning was upon her. She did not_ have_ to owl it; she need not go through with any of it if she didn't want to. But if she owled it—if she truly decided to _begin_ this thing—then she knew she would have to finish it. And a lot could happen in six months. What if she got writer's block? What if no one liked it?... And worse than anything, what if anyone else discovered her secret? Some part her, however, instinctively knew—in the same way she had known that Mrs Weasley would come through for her—that Zabini's lips were sealed. Even if she didn't help him with Muggle Studies, she somehow knew that he wouldn't tell anyone. But he was obviously enjoying his gloating privileges, so she decided to humour him. After all, he was her leading man, and she needed more details—more, at least, than the blatant detail that he was possessed by demons. She smiled. Maybe he wasn't possessed by demons at all. Maybe he was really that _clueless_.

Either way, she did not want to wait until the next Hogsmeade weekend. If she was going to owl her column, she decided, then she was going to do it _right then_. She picked up her things and headed off down the corridor. The school was dark and cold, particularly since almost everyone had gone home for the holidays. The stone walls and floor echoed her hammering footsteps as she paced towards the Owlery. She was more than aware, all of a sudden, of her own conspicuous presence, and she slowed her feet and turned corners more cautiously.

_That's not prefect behaviour_, he had said. In fact, that was one of the _first _things he had ever said to her, and he was right. Running. Knocking people down. Scribbling fantasies onto parchments of notes. Spitting in the face of another prefect. It might not have been prefect behaviour, but it was just so liberating.

She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing on that Christmas Eve. Perhaps they were sitting up drinking butterbeer with Lupin and Tonks and the rest of the Weasleys. Maybe they had even been let in on some more secrets of the Order. She hadn't even _thought_ about the Order for what felt like an eternity. However, she thought about Sirius often, despite herself. She didn't really like Sirius—she never had—but after studying those marble figures that fought against years of constraint forced upon them by the hands of the sculptor, she thought she might have understood him. Or maybe not. Sirius had caused many of his own problems out of nothing but his own self-righteous pride. Harry was becoming more like him than he knew.

Just as she pondered this, she thought she heard Harry's name, spoken silkily on the lips of an older woman. She recognised the voice, and she certainly knew the voice that followed it.

"You'll find it to be more difficult than you might expect."

_That_ was Professor_ Snape_'s voice, ringing out down the corridor in a grumbling whisper.

She silenced her footsteps even more and peeked around the corner. Snape was against the wall, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. In front of him—and slightly taller than him, so that he actually had to look _up_ at her—was Priscilla Pernicia. She wore robes of red velvet that clung to her milk-white skin like raspberry syrup. Her head was thrown back in her arrogance, her lips pursed, her train of straight, black hair elegantly spilling down her back. Merlin, she was _beautiful_. Her crimson lips shamed the hue of her robes, and the skin of her face seemed ghostly pale in comparison to them. Hermione watched as Professor Pernicia lifted a long, thin finger and trailed a scarlet nail down the side of Snape's neck.

"I don't know about that, Severus," she cooed. "You'll find I'm quite good at what I do."

Snape attempted not to look particularly hot and bothered as her long fingernail slid down the front of his robes. He failed miserably, of course. "Then enlighten me, Priscilla," he whispered. "What does a fortune-teller like you know about Occlumency?"

"Why, Severus, I'm surprised," she replied. Her fingernail now danced at his waist. "Divination is nothing more than a flair for Legilimency."

"I see." He paused, obviously collecting himself. He tilted his head to one side and smirked at her. "Then tell me, Priscilla...what am I thinking right now?"

She chuckled lightly. "You're wondering if I'm wearing a bra," she said. "You think I am. And then you're trying to figure out if it unhooks in the front or the back."

Hermione saw Snape raise one eyebrow.

"Well," Priscilla continued, "please allow me to keep you in suspense no longer." She took his hand in hers and guided it towards her chest. She stretched his fingers apart and placed them around the motionless curve of her breast. Snape made no sound—not a whimper, not a gasp, not a sigh—_nothing_. He continued to smirk up at her.

"You know," he said, brushing his thumb along her nipple, "you have a difficult task ahead of you. Potter is especially stubborn. I would also warn you against leaving him alone with your pensieve."

"Severus, I have nothing to hide...unlike _some_ people. I'm not sure exactly what you're up to—or why Dumbledore trusts you so much—but let me assure you that I _don't_. Trust you, that is."

His hand moved slowly down her side and into the folds of fabric between her legs. "You don't need to trust me," he replied. "I don't _want_ you to trust me. And I don't want to find out you're playing your little games with Potter. Not only would that make his head that much bigger than it already is, but I'm also quite sure that Dumbledore would not approve. And if you're so hungry for..._attention_...then you know where my office is."

"I'll keep that in mind," she responded plainly. She turned to go, her crimson robes in motion behind her.

Hermione carefully backed away and went about her former task of climbing upstairs to the Owlery, her mind racing once again.

* * *

With or without an alarm, with or without classes to attend, Blaise found himself wide awake at 5:15am on Christmas morning. Like everything else in life, Christmas required coffee. Lots of it. And not your everyday cup of morning joe. Christmas required espresso-strength _syrup_, so dark and thick that a spoon would stand vertically in it of its own accord. Blaise didn't like Christmas at all. 

He shivered in the dry cold of his dormitory room and massaged his eyelids, waiting on the coffee-maker to brew a full cup. Everyone else was still asleep, their bed curtains drawn together. Blaise did not even want to look towards the end of his bed. He already knew there would be nothing there except several envelopes bearing impersonal cards and money. Or even worse, _gift certificates_. Nothing said "I-don't-know-what-to-get-for-you-but-I-don't-quite-trust-you-with-money" like a gift certificate. It was his mother's favourite gift to give. She might as well have thrown fifty Galleons a year out into the middle of Lock Ness because Blaise had never redeemed a single one. Merlin, how he hated Christmas.

Despite himself, he got up and gathered the armful of gifts from the foot of his bed. There were several envelopes and bags of coins, just as he had suspected, but there were also two actual parcels. He poured a cup of coffee, took a large sip, and decided to begin on the envelopes first.

He carefully released the seal on a long, thin, blue-and-gold envelope, and inside he found a letter and a 50-Galleon gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts. The letter bore the loopy, pretentious handwriting of his mother. Her English was terrible.

_My darling Blaise,_

_I wish you to decided to visit France with us. We have a marvelous time. Genelle and Monique are decorated a huge tree, and even Noemi visits from Florence. Your grandmother wants to see you. You like the books, I know. So I get for you this coupon. Your eyes will go blind from the reading, I am afraid._

_I miss you, my darling. Please write to me._

_Happy Christmas,  
__Mama_

Plain, simple, and highly impersonal. He couldn't believe he had actually gotten an "I miss you" out of her. His mother was usually ice-cold and emotionless.

The next two envelopes bore more gift certificates, these from two of his older sisters, Genelle and Monique. They did not even include cards or letters. Blaise thought suspiciously that his mother might have purchased the certificates herself and put their names on them. He tossed them aside. Genelle was the oldest, and a mastermind entrepreneur. She would most likely take over the family business, if and when old Massimo finally bit the dust. Blaise thought his father might just be too mean to die. But he knew Genelle was waiting for that day with baited breath. Monique, on the other hand, was a complete wastrel. She didn't care whose money she spent—Massimo's, her husband's, or any of her numerous boyfriends'—as long as she got whatever she wanted, precisely _when_ she wanted it. Monique reminded him of his mother.

He opened up one of the parcels next—a box of biscotti and panforte from Grandma Zabini, with a card laid inside. The cover of the card bore a smiling cartoon reindeer whose red nose blinked on and off. Inside the card was nothing more than a heart, drawn so shakily that it might have been rendered by a three-year-old. That heart meant more to him than a million "I miss you"s from his mother. His Grandma Zabini could not read or write at all, and he was amazed that she still even had the ability to hold a quill. She was ninety-three.

The next envelope was green and silver with a seal in the shape of a serpent. It was attached to a green velvet bag, which Blaise knew, without counting, contained exactly two hundred Galleons. It was the same every year. Blaise ripped open the letter, hating his father. He hated the green and silver envelope, hated the small, perfect penmanship, _hated_ the way Massimo Zabini assumed that his son's affections could be bought and paid for so easily.

_Blaise_ (it said),

_I'm sorry we could not all get together for Christmas_. (Yeah, right.) _You should have gone to France_. _Your mother misses you_. (Not as much as she misses her lying, cheating husband, I bet.) _I'm sure you understand that I had very important business in Torino_. (Is that was he was calling it nowadays?) _Perhaps we can all vacation together this summer_. (I won't hold my breath.) _Your Christmas gift is attached_. (And a lot of thought went into it, obviously.) _You get more difficult to buy for every year_. (Like he'd ever tried.) _Keep in touch, son_.

_Papa_

Blaise threw the bag of coins across the room as hard as he could. It made a loud clunk when it hit the wall, and then it landed with a thud on the carpet. He threaded both hands into his hair and sighed heavily. He wished his father hadn't bothered acknowledging him at all. Blaise felt like the great afterthought of human existence. His father made him feel that way.

There was one gift left. A plain, brown parcel secured with hemp. Once he had calmed down, he eyed the parcel suspiciously. There was a name written across the front in small, sepia-coloured lettering. "_Topolino_." His nickname, Italian for "little mouse." Only one person had ever called him that—indeed, there was only one person who could _get by_ with calling him that.

Noemi Sofia Maria Zabini, his sister. The black sheep. The Squib. The one that the rest of the family conveniently forgot to mention in everyday discourse. She was a shoe designer and a dedicated feminist, which Blaise found to be quite admirable and suiting to her. She was the only one who did not live in England. She had left that cold, dreary, misty isle at the age of twenty, with a pocket full of her own hard-earned money and no wish to ever be dependent on Massimo Zabini or any other man. She had set up shop in Florence, Italy. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she was quite a prosperous designer, particularly among rising opera stars.

Blaise felt like he was six years old again. He tore the paper off the package, all the while with a silly grin on his face. _Noemi_. What on earth had she gotten for him?

It was a hardbound book of word origins, and he flipped through it excitedly. He could not have selected a better gift for himself. There was a letter inside the front flap, and he nearly ripped it in his thrilled impatience to get it open.

_Topolino,_

_Happy Christmas! When I saw this book in the English section of Fetrinelli's, I immediately thought of you. I think one of my favourite entries is "hysteria." Leave it to a bunch of white men to name a loss of emotional control after the uterus! They have obviously never witnessed Papa at a football game or Nìccolo beneath the hood of a Lada. But that is neither here nor there, is it?_

_I'm stuck at Granny's house in France for the holidays, as I'm sure you've heard. I don't know how the hell I got talked into coming here. Genelle and Monique are making me hysterical, and I assure you it has nothing to do with my womb. I wish you were here. I bet you're glad you aren't. Papa is in Italy, of course, whoring himself as usual. Oddly enough, I did not get a card from him this year. I think he is still upset about the marinara incident. Ha! It was so worth it._

_Mama showed me a recent photograph of you. Good Lord, Blaise! What happened?! You're not such a little mouse anymore, are you? I didn't realize I had been gone for so long. You have become quite the "Adonis" since I saw you last. Are there any special little girls in your life? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Unless one of them breaks your heart. I'm no witch, but I am a firm believer in Chinese water-torture._

_Anyway, I hope you're doing well. My own crowning achievement this year was designing a pair of stilettos for Cecilia Bartoli (photo enclosed). Quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself, with Ferragamo right down the street._

_Well, enough of my drivel. Send me an owl if you have a moment. I'd love to hear all your news._

_Ti amo,  
__Noemi_

_P.S. I left the receipt in the book. Quite tacky, I know. Now you know exactly how much I spent on your Christmas gift. But I thought you might need a bookmark. Ciao!_

It was like a breath of fresh air—the book, the letter. He couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face. He felt renewed and justified, and he was suddenly very glad that it was Christmas. There _was_ one person, after all, who was thinking of him and wishing him well. He wished that Noemi was right there. He would have told her everything that had been going on in his brain for the past six years. And he knew she would have really _listened_.

He found the photograph and laughed out loud. She had folded it in half so that the emphasis was on Cecilia Bartoli's shoes. They were a fine pair of stilettos—black and strappy, with a delicately pointed toe. Noemi was brilliant at what she did, and she did it all with little or no help from anyone. Blaise envied that about her.

Then he looked at the receipt. _Fetrinelli's. Firenze, Italia. 8 June. 17:56pm._ She had purchased the book for him six months before, obviously on her way home from work. It meant the world to him. _14,000 lire._ That was about 5 British pounds. With less than ten pounds, Noemi had made Blaise happier than Massimo could ever make him with millions of Galleons. At once, Blaise's heart was torn, completely rift open. He wanted to laugh, to run about joyously. At the same time, he felt his eyes stinging with the realisation of exactly who did and who did not truly love him. _Bittersweet_ was the operative word, he thought.

He crept over to the wall at the other side of the room and picked up the bag of gold coins. He hated it, but the money might prove to be useful at a later date.

* * *

Monday night rolled around more quickly, perhaps, than either party had anticipated. Hermione tried to smooth her hair and adjust her robes to make her chest look larger. Blaise misted cologne over his chest and put on a white button-down shirt—shirttail out—and a black blazer. She was going for the slick, respectable look. He was going for the carelessly tragic intellectual look. Neither one of them understood why they were suddenly making such a fuss over their appearances. 

Hermione slung her bag of books over her shoulder and tried to mentally go through the details of Ghiberti's _Gates of Paradise_. Blaise slipped his wand into the inside pocket of his blazer and attempted to come up with an opening line. Neither one of them found themselves to be especially witty or clever at the moment, with the prospect of confronting each other so close to becoming a reality.

Hermione waved to a first-year on her way through the common room. Blaise avoided Malfoy's glare as he walked past the Slytherin fireplace. Hermione went down a set of stairs. Blaise went up, up, and farther up. Hermione walked quickly and purposefully towards her destination. Blaise sauntered casually, secretly hoping she would have to wait on him.

Hermione threw her head back and took a deep breath.

Blaise felt the corners of his mouth stretch into a tiny smile, almost entirely against his will.

"Hi," they said at exactly the same moment.

They just stood there for a moment, looking at one another.

"You showed up."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

They began to pace past the blank stretch of wall. He had to concentrate very hard on needing a slide projector, as he suspected that Hermione's current requirement was a room full of sharp objects or comparable weapons. A door appeared in front of them, and Blaise clasped the brass doorknob and stared down at Hermione.

"Well, Granger," he said. "Let's see what we have to work with, shall we?"

An enormous screen covered one whole wall. The loaded slide projector stood near the back of the room casting a stream of dust-speckled white light onto the screen. There were two fluffy armchairs that looked way too comfortable for studying, and there was a small table between them that was ideal for holding Blaise's coffee mug. It was a shame he had forgotten his coffee. A few candles flickered on the walls, giving just enough light to keep them from stumbling on their way to the chairs.

"How romantic," Blaise commented, that same emotionless half-smile on his face. "I almost think I should carry you across the threshold."

"Don't push me, Zabini. I swear I will—"

"Just wait until we get inside, Granger," he interrupted her. "Then you can scream and yell at me until your little heart is content."

She entered the room, tossed her bag into a heap on the polished wooden floor, and went for the chair nearest to the door. He closed and locked the door behind them. She heard the tiny "click" as it locked and felt her body jerk slightly at the sound. Locked in a candlelit room with a Slytherin. Part of her really hoped he was a gentleman. The other part of her wondered how good it would feel if he wasn't.

He slowly approached the other chair, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He glanced over at her momentarily before he sat down, silently reminding himself that this was not going to be easy, and that was what he liked about it. The way she crossed her arms so defiantly intrigued him. She was fighting him, and she was fighting herself. It was beautiful to watch. He plopped down in the chair and looked up at her.

"Have a seat, Granger," he suggested.

"I'll stand for now, thanks," she responded. With her arms still crossed, she began to pace in front of him. "We need to establish some ground rules."

"Rules?"

"Yes, Zabini, _rules_. Number one: You are to take this seriously. I am not going to waste my time doing all this extra research if you're not going to actually _try_ to learn something."

"Perhaps you haven't noticed," he replied blandly, "but I take _everything_ seriously. Particularly my studies."

"Right," she said. She could not help noticing how long his legs were—bent at the knees and protruding casually from the fluffy edge of the seat. "Number two: No touching."

At this, he actually chuckled.

"What are you laughing about?" she demanded.

"I'm just surprised," he answered through his delicate half-smile. "I would have guessed that would be rule number one."

She looked flustered all of a sudden, as though reconsidering her own apparent folly. "Yes...well..."

"Don't worry, Granger." His words were slow and calculated. "I'll try to keep my hands off of you. Can you make me the same promise?"

"You have quite a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"Not at all. I just think we should level the playing field. You know, start from zero. What do you think?"

Tied at zero. A clean slate. It almost seemed _fair_.

"All right," she muttered.

"So," he said, "I am to take this seriously and refrain from fondling you. Anything else?"

"Yes. Rule number three," she said, regaining some control over herself. "_Never_ do that ear thing again."

"Ear thing?"

"Oh, you know what I'm talking about. That...that _fluttery_ thing."

"Why?" he asked. "Do you find it distracting?"

"No," she lied somewhat shakily. "Not distracting. Just...just..._annoying_. That's all."

"I see. Well, I certainly did not mean to _annoy_ you."

"Rule number four," she continued, allowing for no more of his interruptions. "No one is to know about this. I'm not in the habit of tutoring people. Besides, if Harry and Ron found out—"

"Ah yes," he whispered. "I'd hate to insert a _kink_ into the well-oiled machine that is the Golden Trio."

"Look," she said assertively, "I'm thinking about your own welfare here."

"How thoughtful of you. I suppose living with Draco Malfoy for six years has taught me nothing about how to defend myself."

Why did he have to have a comeback for everything? And not just that. He had a _good_ comeback for everything. She straightened her robes and said quietly, "I suppose that's all."

"Good. Let's begin." He spoke to the screen in front of them. "We need Italian Renaissance sculpture. A mixture of it, from the beginning."

An image suddenly flooded the screen. Two panels in low relief. They depicted the same scene, but differently. Two sides to one story.

"Ah, yes," she whispered, overcome by the raw power of the visual imagery. "This is a great place to begin. _The Sacrifice of Isaac_." She cleared her throat and thought about what she had read. She sat down in the armchair, feeling a bit more comfortable. After all, reciting random facts _was_ her forte.

"These two pieces," she began, "are rarely viewed individually. It is the comparison of the two opposites that make these pieces so compelling. They were entered into a competition for the doors of the Florence baptistery. Ghiberti—that's the one of the left—ended up getting the commission. Brunelleschi ended up putting the dome on the cathedral. He was more of an architect than a sculptor."

She looked over at him. His eyes refused to budge from the screen in front of them. "_The Sacrifice of Isaac_," he repeated quietly. "What was _that_ all about?"

"Well..." How could she describe it to him? She decided to take a simple and unemotional stance on the subject. "You see, Abraham—that's the man with the knife—really loved his son, Isaac. He and his wife, Sarah, had been trying to have a child for about sixty years."

"That's a lot of shagging," he mumbled.

"Without a doubt," she replied, fighting back a chuckle. "Anyway, Sarah finally got pregnant when she was about ninety-something. You can only imagine how happy Abraham was. He finally had a son to carry on his lineage."

"Every man's dream," Blaise said sarcastically.

"And God began to get worried," she continued. "God thought that Abraham loved his son, Isaac, even more than the Almighty himself. So he decided to test Abraham."

"Test him? He doesn't sound very confident in his abilities as a god."

"Indeed," she replied, stunned by Zabini's intuition. "He told Abraham to take Isaac up on top of a mountain and slaughter him like an animal."

"Your god seems very cruel."

"Not _my_ god, Zabini. We digress from the story."

"Please continue."

"So Abraham did as God commanded. He took Isaac to the top of the mountain, prepared to slay his own first-born son for the cause in which he believed so adamantly. These panels here," she went on, pointing, "depict the scene immediately before the slaughter. Abraham raises his knife to his son's throat, and just before he follows God's command, and angel swoops down to stop him. The angel announces that it has all, of course, been nothing more than a cruel test."

"Wow," Blaise said. He let out a sigh.

Hermione was quite pleasantly surprised. She had not really expected him to be so attentive, and his obvious intrigue with the subject matter excited her. Here they were—a Gryffindor and a Slytherin—_learning_ together. Talking about art and religion. These were things she didn't even discuss with Harry and Ron. Things she had never really thought about before.

"Can you pick out the differences in the pieces?" she asked tentatively.

"Of course," he said at once. "It's easy. Brunelleschi's panel is so much more..._brutal_."

"That's what a lot of people seem to think," she answered, again surprised by his clever observation. "Perhaps that's why he lost the competition. But if you look closely, you'll notice how much more realistic the scene appears in Ghiberti's work. Ghiberti was an expert at bronze relief. He blended everything together—do you see that?—while Brunelleschi simply seemed to fit the objects onto the panel more haphazardly."

A silence pervaded the Room of Requirements. Neither one of them were thinking about Ghiberti's mastery of bronze. They were thinking the same thing now, their brains working in unison without any realisation of that fact on the part of either one of them. It was Hermione who finally put their thoughts into question format.

"Do you think a Death Eater would do that?"

"What?" he mumbled. But he knew what. He wanted to hear her say it.

"Sacrifice their own son like that."

Blaise was completely non-committal. He merely stared ahead, his fingers laced beneath his chin.

"I mean," she went on, "if Voldemort—"

Blaise did not even flinch.

"—ordered Lucius Malfoy to slit Draco's throat, do you think he would do it?"

Blaise finally spoke. His voice was soft but firm. "I don't _want_ to think about it. And I don't _have_ to think about it. My father isn't a Death Eater."

She paused. Deep down, he wanted her to continue. He wanted her to ask questions. He would not, after all, volunteer any information that she didn't request.

"What does your father do?" she asked hesitantly.

Blaise looked over at her. "He's a used car salesman, among other things."

She laughed out loud. "A used car salesman? You're joking."

He shook his head.

"That's kind of..._dodgy_...isn't it?"

"He _was_ a Slytherin."

"And so are you."

"Because I _asked_ to be a Slytherin." He had never told this to anyone before. "The Sorting Hat tried to put me into Ravenclaw. And that would have given old Massimo one more reason to hate me."

"Zabini, I'm sure he doesn't hate you."

"He doesn't like me much, either."

Blaise could not figure out why he had told her this. Perhaps it was because he had encroached upon her deepest secret, and he felt he owed her something. But mostly, it was just because he finally _wanted_ to tell _someone_. It was the real reason he had wanted to get her alone, even if he didn't realise it.

She was completely speechless. To be suddenly—almost unconsciously—given such an intimate peek into Zabini's psyche.... It was frightening yet refreshing. He looked straight into her eyes as if he wanted to tell her more, as if he was fighting with himself. She decided not to push him anymore at that moment.

"So," she said, retreating to their former topic, "do you think Lucius Malfoy would slaughter his own son?"

Blaise shifted in his chair a bit. "Granger," he said, measuring his words, "we all know what a smarmy little git Draco Malfoy is. And I wouldn't put _anything_ past his father."

"Well, anyway," she whispered. "Let's go on, shall we?" She looked back towards the slide projector and then back up at the screen, saying, "Next, please."

Both of them sat still a moment, quietly viewing the next slide. It was a gruesome panel, depicting a scene that was even more brutal than Brunelleschi's version of Abraham and Isaac. A plump, horrified man raised his hands in disgust as he was offered a severed head on a plate.

"Well," Blaise spoke finally, not knowing what else to say. "Please enlighten me, Granger."

"Donatello's _Feast of Herod_, commissioned for the Siena baptistery. Donatello was Ghiberti's apprentice, but he eventually surpassed Ghiberti, particularly in the field of free-standing sculpture."

"What about the story?" he implored.

She grinded her teeth. She didn't like that story. As usual, it was a woman who was to blame for the hideous and violent acts committed by men. "Where to begin?" she said with a sigh. "King Herod captured and imprisoned John the Baptist, who was the cousin of Jesus. King Herod was also married to his own brother's wife, I might add."

"Is this a Bible story or a soap opera?" Blaise asked with a chuckle.

"Soap opera?" Hermione replied, smiling. "What do _you_ know about _soap operas_?"

"I know they're addictive," he said. "My sister, Noemi, tapes them while she's at work. I've watched them before. They're actually kind of amusing."

All right. So his father was a used car salesman, and his sister watched soap operas. Were they Slytherins or not? She had no idea how to comment on these revelations, so she simply continued the story.

"Anyway, John the Baptist scolded King Herod for taking his brother's wife, Herodias. This made Herodias furious. So Herod throws a big birthday bash for himself, and Herodias' daughter does some belly-dancing for him and his guests. She pleases everyone so much that Herod promises to give her anything she asks for, up to half his kingdom. Her mother, Herod's wife, tells her to ask for John the Baptist's head on a platter. This panel shows the scene where Herod is presented with John's head."

"That is really disgusting," he said matter-of-factly. "This story is in the Bible?"

"And it's one of the mildest tales, believe it or not. I think they just slipped it in there to make women look bad. Christians are always trying to blame everything on women. They seem to think women are inherently evil or something. It makes me glad I'm a witch, actually."

"Women _are_ evil," Blaise replied, thinking at once about Padma, using him so mercilessly. About his mother and his sister, Monique—so cold and callous. Hermione studied him with a certain contempt in her eyes. "I mean, _some_ of them are evil," he quickly added. "Some women could make Lucius Malfoy look like an angel. Take Bellatrix Lestrange, for example. Didn't she—"

"Kill her own cousin?" Hermione finished for him. "Yes."

"I grew up in a house with four women, Granger," he said. "I know all about how evil women can be."

"Four women?!" she exclaimed.

"My mother and three older sisters."

She laughed again. "No wonder you're so quiet."

"Exactly," he said. "I never could get a word in edgewise, could I?"

She could already see a different side of him. There was a tormented aspect to his character that no one would have ever guessed existed. He hid it well beneath his silent arrogance, but now that he was talking, she could see it so clearly. It wasn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for compassion—it was just a coldly simple statement of the facts. She felt compassion for him nonetheless, even though she did not want to admit it to herself.

"How can you help but love women, though, if you are a man?" Blaise mused. He looked over at her, and for once, his eyes traveled lower than her face. He allowed them to move down her neck, over her shoulders, across the bulge in her robes that was her breasts, down her arm to the tiny hand that rested on the arm of her chair. She felt his heavy gaze and shifted in her chair a bit. "Women are so deliciously mysterious," he continued. "So different from us. So emotional. So small and soft—"

"Next slide, please!" she interrupted him. He met her eyes once more and gave her that half-smile. "Good," she said, as the next slide popped into view. "More Donatello."

Thus, they continued, Hermione explaining the stories behind the images and making random comments on the artists' techniques. The slide projector seemed to be stuck on Donatello. Some of the works were so obscure that Hermione actually had to consult Gardner's. This, of course, caused Blaise to reprimand her. ("I thought you were prepared!" followed by "Give it a rest, Zabini! If you've seen one marble saint, you've seen them all!") _St. John_, _St. Mark_, _St. George_. _The Pazzi Madonna_. ("This is getting tedious," Blaise said.) The prophet _Habbakuh_. ("Obviously not known for his good looks," Blaise commented.) The famous bronze sculpture of _David_. ("_He_ killed a giant with a slingshot? He looks like a stiff wind would knock him over! And why is he totally naked except for a hat and a pair of boots?") _The Penitent Magdalene_. ("She's got more hair than _you_, Granger.")

She sighed heavily and stuffed Gardner's back into her bag resolutely.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sitting up suddenly.

"I think we've both had enough for one night," she replied, rubbing her eyes.

"I didn't mean to wear you out," he said, a very miniscule smirk playing across his lips, his defenses weakened slightly from exhaustion.

"I could keep going all night," she told him, fighting back a yawn. "I thought _you_ might be tired."

"You underestimate my stamina, Granger." The smirk grew wider, and he sat back in his chair, one hand beneath his chin and his eyes heavy upon hers.

She shifted her weight and put her hands on her hips. "I_ do_ hope we're still talking about Italian Renaissance sculpture," she said dryly.

His eyebrows shot up in feigned innocence. "What else would we be talking about?"

"Okay, I'll admit it," she said. "I'm exhausted."

His eyes once again traveled down the length of her body and back up again. She saw him do this, but she did not budge. "Just one more," he pleaded lightly. He didn't want her to go. He never got so much attention—he had never _wanted_ so much attention—and it was addictive.

She submitted to him, flinging herself once more into the armchair. "One more," she said. "That's all. Next slide, please."

She perked up, unable to believe her eyes. "Donatello's _Judith and Holofernes_," she told him. "Very _interesting_."

The image on the screen showed two bronze figures, slightly turquoise with age. A smiling woman stood above a partially beheaded sitting man. One of her hands held up a knife, poised to strike him again, while her other hand clutched his hair. The look on her face showed triumph, _intrigue_ at her own violent action.

"Another evil woman?" Blaise asked.

"Quite the contrary. She was a heroine, and she was, most likely, the only woman in the Bible to ever stand up and do something about her situation. In fact, she was just brave enough to get herself conveniently excluded from modern versions of the Bible."

She looked over at Blaise, expecting to see him sneering at her feminist interpretation. Instead, he looked highly interested in hearing her opinion. His dark blue eyes shone brightly in the dusty light of the projector—wide and captivated.

"The king Nebuchadnezzar held the Jews in captivity and was planning on destroying them. Judith had to do something to save her people. So she waited until Holofernes, the commander of Nebuchadnezzar's army, got terribly drunk at a banquet. Then she flirted with him...pretended to submit to him. And at the final moment, she took out her knife and chopped off his head with two blows to his neck. Thus, her people were saved."

"Interesting," was his only comment.

Hermione was suddenly very passionate about the story and the image in front of them. How brave Judith had been! She had known what she had to do, and she had simply done it. "You see, Zabini," she explained, "your _typical_ Biblical heroine is someone like Esther. And what made Esther so heroic? The fact that she crawled on her knees to beg a man for mercy? Judith did not intend on going so quietly, or going on anyone else's terms. And what better weapon can a woman use against a man, other than her own physical charms?"

Hermione glared at him suddenly, her eyes bright and focused. It was the truth—he had said it himself—and she almost wanted to rub it in his face, this power that women had over men. She wanted him to acknowledge her. She wanted to hear him agree with her. The power play in the image before them was all too familiar, though she saw it at once more clearly than ever before. Men and women. He who controls and she who submits. The tiger and the tamer.

"The old seduce-and-destroy technique, huh?" he finally responded. His face was now serious again, emotionless.

"You're quite familiar with that technique, I presume?" she retorted, a bit disappointed by his reaction.

"Yes, I am," he answered. "I've been on the receiving end of that technique more than once."

"Oh, poor Zabini," she mocked. "Don't tell me.... Some girl got you drunk and then had her way with you, right?"

She had stuck a knife through his chest and twisted it, without even knowing what she was doing. He fought to keep his gaze steady and deliberated on how to answer her. She had asked that question so sarcastically. She couldn't have known it was the truth, and he certainly did not want to admit it to her.

"I think you're right," he said at last. "That's more than enough for one night."

"So much for your stamina," she spat back. She picked up her bag and headed for the door. She didn't hear him get up and follow her, so she was startled when she reached for the doorknob, pulled, and found that the door would not open. She looked up to see his hand against the door, holding it closed. He leaned his weight on it, trapping her. She turned around, her back against the door, and stared way up into his rigid face. Part of her hated him for controlling her so easily. Part of her _wanted_ to stay, just to have the last word.

"Was there something else, Zabini?" she asked, her chin raised as defiantly as ever. She refused to be intimidated, no matter how tall or seemingly strong he was.

He just stood there awhile, looking down at her, loving to watch her fight with him, marveling at her independence. At the same time, he felt strangely naked. He had told her too much. "I'm not like that, you know," he whispered. "Not like you might think I am, anyway."

"I don't know you at _all_," she said. "You protect me, and then you bribe me. You flirt with me, and then you tell me you're 'not like that'. To tell you the truth, I am utterly and entirely confused."

Her honesty was refreshing. In fact, her honesty was her most lethal blow, as he was completely unaccustomed to such a tactic. He could see the confusion in her eyes, and it reflected his own confusion. One thought kept occurring to him—one question that seemed foreign and unreal—_What am I doing?_

"Zabini," she whispered. "What are you doing?"

She was reading his mind. He could think of nothing to say, so he just stood there mutely, trapping her against the door. She was so much shorter than him, but she seemed unfazed, even as he stared into her eyes, judging her reaction.

She was anything but "unfazed." In fact, her heart pounded against her breastbone as though it would burst. It wasn't fear or anger that pumped her blood so hotly through her veins. It was compassion, and it swelled in her belly and sent waves of warmth through her limbs. And even beneath the sudden compassion, there was a small tickle of desire. He looked so bare and defenseless—so _uncertain_. And he smelled like the forest, like wet leaves, like rainwater.

"Rule number five," she whispered. "You're not to look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked. His face was blank.

_You know perfectly well like what, you bastard._

"Like you want to break rule number two."

He paused, as if to consider this. "And what if I did?" He leaned a little bit closer.

_Oh, God! I think he's going to kiss me. He's going to lean down, and he's going to kiss me, and I won't be able to do anything except maybe like it. And kiss him back._

"Granger?"

"Yes?"

"You will break rule number two before I do."

_He's right! I want to touch him. I want to reach up and run my fingers down his cheek. I want to sift my hands through his curls. I bet they're soft. They look soft._

"That's doubtful, Zabini."

"Wanna make a bet?" he asked, still not smiling.

She threw back her shoulders and tilted her head, her chin still high in the air. "Five points to Gryffindor if you lose."

"Five points to _Slytherin_ if _you_ lose."

Green light. Mount your brooms. _Play ball._

"A History of Magic essay," she said, raising the stakes.

"A week's worth of Arithmancy homework," he replied.

"Malfoy's balls on a platter."

"Malfoy's wand, snapped in two."

"Malfoy seems to be getting the raw end of this bet."

"Who cares?"

"Okay. If you lose, I get an hour of free reign in the Slytherin boy's dormitory."

"And if _you_ lose, I get an hour of free reign in the _Astronomy Tower_."

_I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. I'm melting! I'm melting!_

"Perhaps we should just stick to five points to the House of the winner."

"Deal."

He still did not move.

"Granger?"

"Yes?"

"About these art history lessons..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you," he whispered.

He let her go, and—oh!—how quickly she went. When she was gone, he grinned from ear to ear.

* * *

**More A/N:** Now, for anyone else who may still be out there lurking, and for any of you who are still with me here, you can expect an update very soon. The next chapter is already written, and I think it's much better than this one. This chapter was kind of introspective, but a crucial one to the plot development, nonetheless. 

**_And now, for the shout-outs to my precious reviewers:_**

**Zaralya: **I think I'd give my writing hand to be "Poor Hermione." Ah, Zabini...the sneakier he is, the more I love him. Thanks for reviewing!

**Donroth:** What a compliment!!! I have a confession to make. I really don't like Draco Malfoy. I see Draco as an especially pretty Dudley, and that's about all. A spoiled rotten little tattle-tale with almost no redeeming qualities. Lucius, however, is an entirely different story....(Must stop dirty thoughts.) Anyway, I am honoured that you would almost turn traitor because of this little fic!

**Dixi: **Wow! A lurker! Many, many thanks for speaking up. Reviewers like you make my caffeine breakdowns all worthwhile. And yes, Zabini is _definitely_ going to be in over his head.

**hoofservant: **Clapping your hands and bouncing and saying things like "Goddess bless" will get you everywhere, darling. Sorry you had to wait!

**Louise:** Yep. There just aren't enough Zabinis to go around. Just wait until you meet Massimo.

**Pallas Athena1: **Oh my god. You gave me a "woohoo"! You have a very, _very_ special place in my heart. But you know that, don't you? (Now, where is this new chappie you promised?)

**mageofknowledge:** I agree! Thank you!

**Procella Nox-noctis:** Thanks for the glowing review and the advice! I'm new to this whole fanfic thing. Thanks for making me feel like part of the community!

**trova: **Thank you for continuing to read and review!

**Alenor**: You have this uncanny gift for giving back-handed compliments. Did you know that? But as one of my most loyal reviewers, I thank you dearly. I hope you'll keep reading.

**Antisocial mint:** That's a HUGE compliment! I humbly thank you!

**Kurayami Pansa:** Thanks! Possessive!Blaise is also one of my favourites. And Clueless!Blaise is just so fun. But I must admit...Trapping-Hermione-Against-A-Door!Blaise really makes my blood race.

**Morvidra: **Grazie! Ho visitato Italia due volte, ma aprendo ancora. È una lingua perfetta, no? Appassionata—aspra ma graziosa—e tanto Blaise! (E sì, l'Internet conta.) Spero che godi questo capitolo, e grazie di nuovo!

**tweetygurl88:** Thanks so much! It's all for people like you, sweetie.

_Grazie mille a tutti, e fino a presto...  
tamlane_


	7. Secret Admirer

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**Spoilers: **All 5 books. And if you haven't yet read your way through OOTP, then you might consider crawling out of that cave you're living in.

**A/N: Whew! **I actually got _dizzy_ writing this chapter. It was almost..._orgasmic_. The answer, Procella, is that I am a great fan of Italian art. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with a concentration in art history. To put it bluntly, art really does it for me. As you're about to find out...

_**Diagon Venus**_

**Chapter 7 – Secret Admirer**

"_between thought and expression  
__lies a lifetime  
__situations arise  
__because of the weather  
__and no kinds of love  
__are better than others"  
__--Lou Reed_

One night in mid-January, Blaise sat in the common room by the fireplace and pretended to read. Blaise was an expert at pretending to read. He even moved his eyes and flipped the pages in a timely fashion. No one ever suspected him. Tonight, as usual, this served a dual purpose. For one thing, it helped him ignore the fact that Millicent Bulstrode was staring at him with visions of firewhiskey dancing in her eyes. Second, and most important, was the fact that pretending to read gave him a chance to inconspicuously eavesdrop on Malfoy's conversation.

The topic of discussion on this particular evening was Malfoy's recent catastrophe. After his brief stay in the hospital wing during the holidays, Malfoy was slightly less keen on rambling on and on about the various torture plots and lewd acts he wanted to perform on Granger. In fact, he would not even mention her name anymore. She was now simply "that Gryffindor (expletive of the week)." He even once referred to her as "She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." That brought a smile to Blaise's face. Granger would surely have laughed her arse off over that one.

Malfoy was pacing in front of the sofa, where Crabbe and Goyle looked bored and somewhat constipated. (Or perhaps they were suffering from their usual indigestion. Thanks to the two of them, the Slytherin common room was typically evacuated shortly after dinner.) Poor Crabbe and Goyle. If Blaise had heard Malfoy recount the tale five times, _they_ had probably heard it fifty or more.

"And I was certainly not going to let You-Know-Who get by with spitting in my face," Malfoy said. His chin-length white-blonde locks flew all about his face as he paced back and forth in agitation. "I mean, there are hundreds of girls who would practically _beg_ for me to touch them. And what an humble sacrifice on my part...to even _consider_ fondling someone like _her_! So I open my mouth to tell her what an ungrateful little snob she is, and then..." He paused. He had been trying for days to come up with a perfect description of what had happened. It was really pathetic.

"We know," said Goyle. Actually, he belched the statement. Goyle's belching record was nineteen words (not including "a" and "the"). Then, in his normal voice, he continued, "You couldn't say anything."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Malfoy. "But it's not because I didn't _want_ to. I really, honestly _couldn't do it_. And when I tried, it was like someone had sewn my lips shut. UGH! I can't figure it out."

"Maybe she put a hex on you," Crabbe said lazily.

Blaise rolled his eyes. Why someone like Malfoy would consult Crabbe and Goyle for answers to_ anything_ was beyond him.

"But it would've had to be wandless!" Malfoy cried, growing more angry and frustrated by the moment. "Either that, or she would've had to do it sometime between Saturday and Sunday morning. And that's impossible! I never even saw her during that time."

He picked up a vase and threw it across the room. It shattered into pieces at the feet of several timid-looking second-years who promptly packed their bags and headed through the portrait hole. Typical Malfoy. When in doubt, throw something. Blaise thought back to Christmas—to the bag of Galleons he had thrown across the room—and he was suddenly ashamed by his own immaturity. Still, his father had been the source of his anger on that occasion. He certainly wasn't about to start tossing vases out of sexual frustration.

"That know-it-all _slut_!" Malfoy yelled. "I don't know how she did it, but she's good. I'll give her that much. But even _she_ is not_ that_ good. I mean, she might get straight Os, but she really doesn't know her arse from a hole in the ground. Merlin, I'd like to—"

"Maybe she has a secret admirer," Blaise interrupted matter-of-factly, snapping his book shut and looking up at Malfoy with steady, heavy-lidded eyes.

Once the trio had recovered from the fact that Blaise had actually spoken, they burst into laughter. "Woo!" Malfoy cried, clutching at his side. "That's a good one, Zabini. That Gryffindor skank...a _secret admirer_!"

The laughter continued. Blaise simply waited, as indifferently as ever, for their silly display of masculinity to subside.

"Well, it's obvious," Blaise went on when their laughter died down into chuckles, "that someone doesn't want you messing with her."

Malfoy straightened up a bit, as though actually considering this idea. "Who on earth would do _that_?" he asked. "They would have to be out of their gourd. The only person I can think of is Longbottom, and...well, we all know how perfectly inadept _he_ is."

Now, however, Malfoy was pacing again, his pointy face screwed up in concentration. And a new emotion played about his eyes and lips. _Jealousy_. Blaise could see it. Malfoy had not considered the thought that someone else would actually be interested in Granger. Blaise just watched him. He assumed that Malfoy's next move would be to list all of Granger's flaws in order to quell his own feelings of insecurity, and sure enough—

"But she's a stubborn bitch!" Malfoy said. "And she's so ugly. Anyone who ever saw her when she had those buck teeth is probably still having nightmares." Malfoy shuddered noticeably. "And that hair...eww."

Blaise shrugged casually. "You know, some men might find her hair to be exceptionally sexy," he commented blandly. "They _might_ think it makes her look like she just woke up after a night of passionate sex."

All three of them were now looking at Blaise as though he had just announced that he was running for Minister of Magic. Blaise did not flinch. Malfoy shoved his hands into his pockets and observed Blaise with interest.

"Well, well, Zabini," he drawled. "It looks like _someone_ has given the matter a great deal of thought."

"Not at all," Blaise replied. He rose from the chair, his towering frame a good four inches taller than Malfoy's. "I'm simply trying to be objective." He nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle and added, "I thought you might value some _real_ input."

All three of them were speechless. Blaise took the opportunity of their silent shock to gather his things in one swift motion and head for the portrait hole. He climbed out of the common room and strode up the stairs towards the library. He shouldn't have said anything—he knew it—but he wanted to give Malfoy something to think about. Besides, the binding was nearly untraceable.

He found himself thinking about Granger's hair. In fact, he could not _stop_ thinking about it. He thought about how it might look blowing gently in the breeze, or pinned up in clips at various places along her temples, or spread out against his pillow...WHOA! But it was true. Her hair was so wild that it always looked as though she had just emerged from a quickie in a broom closet. Granted, he had never thought about it that way _before_, but after viewing her hair in the soft, magical light of a slide projector, he had become almost obsessed with it. If nothing else, it made her seem more human. And sometimes it matched her eyes...

And then there she was, her mountain of frizzy curls spilling down her back as her head bent over one of the desks in the library. He briefly wondered what she would look like in a blue-and-white checkered dress with braided pigtails...NO! _We're not in Kansas anymore_, he thought to himself, feeling an odd jerk of—desire?—at his groin. It was a mistake to come to the library. Damn it! The library was _his_ special place. Could he not escape from her anywhere?

Relieved that she had her back to him, he slithered away to the fiction section without being noticed. He sat down at a small, round table near the back of the library and pulled out his quill and some parchment. He had a relentless urge to write a letter to Noemi and tell her everything. He pulled out the book she had sent him for Christmas—it was now one of his favourites—and stared down at the cover. _Word Origins and Their Romantic Meanings_ by Wilfred Funk, Litt.D. Anyone with a surname like "Funk" _had_ to be worth reading. He tried to imagine going through life with a surname like "Funk." He had a sneaky suspicion he never would have lasted an hour in Slytherin with such a surname.

He opened the book to the page marked by the receipt and skimmed down the page until a certain paragraph jumped out at him.

"_The Malays purposely have no name for_ tiger_ lest the sound of it might summon him or offend him. The ignorant of Madagascar never mention the word "lightning" for fear it might strike."_¹

And so it was with the name "Voldemort" in the Wizarding world. And now with the name "Granger" in the Slytherin dormitory. And for a Zabini, it was the same with the words "thank you."

If his life depended on it, he could not have guessed why he had felt the need to utter those words to Granger after their first art history session. Zabinis _neve_r used the words "thank you." For one thing, those words implied that one had been done a favor. Zabinis did favors for other people—favors that they could collect upon at a later date, perhaps—but they did not _accept_ favors from _anyone_. That was a sign of weakness. For another thing, to thank someone invoked the idea that one actually felt gratitude, and Zabinis, of course, felt nothing. To say "thank you" was to actually acknowledge another person's compassion. And Blaise had not really known that such a thing as compassion truly existed.

_Thank you_. How could Donatello elicit such a sentiment from him?

No one in his family had ever thanked servants or waitstaff or clerks or _anyone_. To a Zabini, servitude was expected, taken for granted. One was certainly not supposed to be openly grateful for it. Actually, that wasn't true. There _was_ one person in his family who was different. And he could think of one more circumstance where gratitude was appropriate. So he picked up his quill and wrote.

_Cara Noemi,_

_Thank you for the Christmas present. Also, congratulations on your exquisite pair of stilettos. I am fine. There is a special girl. I am trying my best to hate her, but she is just so damn disarming. By the way, I would scarcely call myself an "Adonis." (And if I am, she hasn't seemed to notice.) Massimo sent me two hundred Galleons. I wish he hadn't. You're the lucky one, you know. I miss you._

_Ti amo,  
__Topolino_

He read back over it, wishing he had been more eloquent. But with his sister, he didn't have to pretend. He packed his bag and headed off to the Owlery, once again carefully avoiding Granger.

* * *

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, feverishly flipping through the unabridged version of Gardner's _Art Through the Ages_. She loved this book, even if it did weigh nearly 5 kilos. In fact—as it was hardbound and consisted of exactly 1,200 pages of artistic glory—it would not even fit in her bag. She was forced to carry it around under her arm, and this was no small feat. 

She had found a new passion...art history. She could not seem to get enough of it. Having already learned everything there was to know about Italian Renaissance art, she had now turned her attention to Greek art. She had also begun to study Italian in small doses. She somewhat lamented the fact that Hogwarts did not teach these things. What good was any kind of life—Muggle _or_ Wizard—without an appreciation of the finer things? She began to regret dropping Muggle Studies after her third year.

There was one thought that would not extricate itself from her racing brain. Without Zabini, she would have never really pursued any of this stuff. Without Zabini, she would still be struggling for ideas on how to begin Part I of her column. Without Zabini, she might have never known about the beauty of Michelangelo's marble sculptures. Without Zabini, she might have been still trudging along, cluelessly devoted to Arithmancy equations. Again, she couldn't figure out if that was a good or a bad thing.

She stared at him across the Great Hall. He now typically sat facing her. They both arrived each morning for breakfast around 6:30am. They sat at their separate tables and read. Once in awhile, she would look up and find him staring at her. From his blank, emotionless face, he would wink at her all of a sudden and flash her that semi-smile, and then they would bury themselves once again in their books. It was intoxicating—this secret between them. And in the early morning, when the Great Hall was occupied by only a handful of students, she was able to connect with him in that small, subtle way.

She propped her chin on her hand and idly stared down at the _Nike of Samothrace_. It all seemed like a dream. She was now two-thirds of the way through writing Part II. As it turned out, her leading man was fighting against the demons that possessed him. He was cold and casual—despite his random outbursts—but underneath it all, there was a hero dying to be released. This man taunted her heroine relentlessly. He was always there—lurking but not touching, talking but not saying what he really meant. She wondered if _Witch Weekly_ would even publish the column. It was getting so ridiculous, really.

And so was Hermione. She was becoming so ridiculous that she barely recognised herself. Gone were the days of finishing essays ahead of time and making clothes for house-elves and following Harry and Ron around like a puppy dog. She was becoming independent, in a way that she had never considered. Suddenly, life was more than a fight to get her hand in the air before anyone else. Suddenly, she saw the satisfaction of sitting back and watching the people around her. Had Zabini taught her that?

All she knew was that she was beginning to feel something for him. It frightened her. And it was more than his good looks—(oh, yes, he was _quite_ good-looking). It was his detachment, his seeming apathy and extreme control that fascinated her. She had no idea he was so intelligent. He had a quick wit, as well, which constantly kept her on her toes. She never knew exactly what to expect from him.

Then again, she _did _know what to expect. He would arrive on Monday evenings at the Room of Requirements, indifferent and seemingly empty as always. Then they would begin the lesson, and he would astound her with his insight. He had this cunning ability to cut to the quick of any piece of art that they studied. She would spend a week preparing herself for these discussions, and then, in one plain sentence, he would summarize the entire concept of the work of art, as though he didn't even need her help. He seemed to be an expert at these things—at _human nature_.

Furthermore, she had learned things about him that were quite disarming. One of these things was the fact that he had actually _asked_ the Sorting Hat to put him into Slytherin. Also, he seemed to hate his father. His father was constantly cheating on his mother, which he found to be detestable. He had an older sister named Noemi, whom he loved dearly, and she was a shoe designer. He, too, thought Professor Snape was a total git, and he abhorred Divination. He loved the scent of lavender, and he had a weakness for the crescent moon. He adored language, greedily devouring definitions and words origins. And it really pissed him off that people mistook his silence for stupidity.

Yes, after only four sessions in the Room of Requirements, she felt like she had known him for years. He opened up to her hesitantly—almost _resentfully_—and yet, at the same time, he seemed to be aching for companionship.

For Hermione, however, it was becoming a struggle to keep her eyes off of his hands and his hair and his lips. He seemed to be completely clueless about how his appearance affected nearly every girl with whom he came into contact. The more she tried to talk herself out of it, the more she found herself _really_ wanting to break rule number two. And the bastard seemed to know it.

She flipped the page in Gardner's and nearly melted. The _Barberini Faun_. What a fine piece of Greek Hellenistic sculpture _that_ was. Merlin's ghost—he looked just like Zabini. Well, maybe Zabini was not quite so muscular, but everything else was strikingly similar. The drunken faun lounged on a rock, one arm thrown behind his head. His eyes were closed, a slight grimace on his face as he dreamt. And his legs—she blushed!—were thrown wide open, leaving nothing to the imagination. Well, _almost_ nothing. Apparently, the Greeks had a thing for breaking the phalluses off of sculptures, much like teenagers steal the mascots of rival schools and carry them away as trophies. Mister _Barberini Faun_ had obviously fallen victim to such a robbery. What a pity.

She squirmed in her seat a bit. Damn Zabini. Either he was truly set on winning their bet, or he was painfully shy. In fact, he had completely stopped flirting with her. She had thought this would be a good thing, but now she missed it. She would have paid her salary from _Witch Weekly_ to have him do that ear thing one more time. Damn it. _That_ was rule number _three_. For a Slytherin, he seemed to be terribly good at following the rules.

Here she was trying to write a romance, and her muse decided to be a gentleman. And it was all her fault! Or maybe he just wasn't interested. Yes, that seemed to be a more likely explanation. She remembered how he had trapped her against the door. She thought about the way the top of her head barely reached his collarbone...

"_Hermione_!"

She looked up, a bit startled. Ron was standing behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the open book. His face was a bright crimson hue, and a pained expression of shock danced in his eyes.

"Those people are _naked_!" he exclaimed in a whisper. He put his hand over the _Barberini Faun_, as though shielding her innocent eyes, and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the content of her book. "You shouldn't be looking at pictures like that!"

"It's _art_, Ronald," she replied. She gave him a look of pity and patted him on the shoulder. "What's the matter? Does Mister Greek Sculpture make you feel _inferior_?"

He glared at her, his face now clearly red from anger. "I'll have you know," he said, "that Mister Greek Sculpture has _nothing_ on a Weasley. In fact—" He lifted his hand and looked again. "—Mister Greek Sculpture seems to be somewhat _lacking_, if you know what I mean."

"And what a shame it is!" she said with a sigh. She flipped back a page and pointed to the _Venus de Milo_. "Is that better?"

A very cheeky grin crossed his lips. "Not bad," he said. "What happened to her arms?"

"Think of it as a plus," Hermione whispered. "She doesn't have anything to slap you with if you fondle her."

"And it's always been my lifelong fantasy to fondle a piece of rock," he added sarcastically.

"I don't know," she quipped, looking pensive. "If I'm ever in Munich, the museum guards will probably have to drag me away, kicking and screaming, from Mister Greek Sculpture."

Ron could not help but laugh. Then he straightened up a bit—that old, familiar "wait-a-minute-I'm-a-prefect" look on his face. "Seriously, Hermione," he said, "what's gotten into you? First, it's trashy romance novels, and now it's...smutty arwork."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Your mother seems to think it's normal," she stated matter-of-factly.

His jaw dropped. Then he cleared his throat. "You know," he whispered quietly, "my mother also has _seven children_."

"Eww, Ronald..._please_! I don't want to think about it."

"Neither do I," he said, now looking a little pale. "But you might want to consider that fact before you start taking her advice on...these things."

She put her flaming head in her hands and laughed joyously. She had forgotten how amusing Ron could be when he wasn't acting like a complete jerk. And it felt so good to laugh.

She suddenly looked up, realising that Ron had come in alone. "Where's Harry?" she asked, a more serious expression on her face.

Ron stopped eating and played with his food, which was highly uncharacteristic of him. "I don't know," he muttered, shrugging. "Probably chasing after Professor Pernicia."

"What?!"

"Even _I_ am starting to worry about him," Ron said. He looked at her as though begging for a voice of reason. "He's almost worse than Lavender and Parvati put together!"

"What are you talking about?" she pleaded.

"He's gone round the bend over Divination," Ron explained quietly. "Professor Pernicia claims that she can get in touch with Sirius. And you wouldn't believe some of the things she's come up with."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one thing, she knows details about Grimmauld Place. She knew about the portrait of Sirius' mother, and the family tree, and Kreacher. She claims that Sirius' spirit is still there."

"What a load of shite," Hermione asserted. "Really, where do these crazy fortune-tellers get off, manipulating people like that in their time of grief?" She thought for a minute. "Anyone could know about Grimmauld Place, Ron. The Blacks were very influential. I wouldn't be surprised if Pernicia used to give Mrs Black private readings."

"I don't know..."

"What else?"

"She knows what happened," he said. "She knows about the veil."

"That's not so unusual. She works for Dumbledore, right? And besides, she's teaching Harry Occlumency."

"Well, it's all becoming very tedious," he announced. "I'm sick of it. Harry spent most of the Christmas holidays practising Divination. _Trying to make contact with the dead._ It's really starting to freak me out. We went to Diagon Alley, and he actually bought a crystal ball!"

"Ron," she said, her voice calm and soothing, "Harry's dealing with so much right now. He's lost the only thing like a real living relative that he had left. We have to be patient with him."

"And I don't like the way he talked to _you_, either," Ron spat. "In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it. But you just disappeared! What happened to you before Christmas?"

"Oh, just stress," she said, fidgeting slightly. "I think I've bitten off more than I can chew."

His eyes narrowed, assessing her. "But you have time to read romance novels?" He looked away. "And what _is_ going on with you and that Slytherin?"

"_Nothing_!" she yelled. A few people looked at her oddly. "Nothing. Harry was just imagining things."

"Who is he, anyway?" Ron continued. "I don't even know him."

"Neither do I," she lied. She couldn't look Ron in the eye. "I don't even know what Harry was talking about."

There was an awkward silence. She tried to convince herself that she _had_ to lie to him. She was forced to lie to everyone lately, and she hated it.

"Listen," he said at last. "We haven't been to see Hagrid in ages. Why don't you come with me tonight? We'll go try to choke down some of his baking, or something. Get the scoop on Grawp. What do you say?"

"That sounds good," she said, thinking she could definitely use a break. Then she remembered it was Monday. "No, wait! I can't. I'm really sorry, Ron."

"Why not?" he begged. "Please, Hermione. Harry's got his Occlumency tonight. I'm going to go crazy if I have to sit around watching Dean and Ginny get it on in the common room."

"_Get it on_?"

"You know what I mean. Crikey, they could at least find an empty classroom or something. I think they do it just to watch my blood pressure go up."

She chuckled. Poor Ron.

"Come on, Hermione. Please?"

"I told you, I can't. There's something I have to do."

"What?"

_Great. Here comes another lie_, she thought. She tried to think of a discreet way to phrase it, so that she wasn't necessarily lying. "I promised to help someone," she said.

"Who?"

Damn Ron and his questions. "Just...someone who needed my help."

"A Gryffindor?" he probed, one eyebrow arched.

There was no getting out of it now. She would have to lie. "Yes," she said. "A third-year. You don't know her."

He did not look satisfied, but he didn't ask any more questions. She let out a sigh of relief.

"Well," he said, getting up to leave, "have fun in _Potions_."

She nodded and watched him go. She was lying to everyone recently. She was even lying to herself.

* * *

It was Monday evening, 7:15pm. Blaise's new favourite day and time of the week. He was already in the Room of Requirements, waiting on her. As usual, she would arrive promptly at 7:30. They would sit back in their armchairs—that small table, now equipped with a coffeemaker, separating them—and they would talk for almost two hours about art and religion and life in general. For six years, there had been no one with whom he could talk about these things, and now his cup was overflowing. Now he could not seem to shut up. 

Their discussions went beyond scholarly and philosophical musings. Now he knew all kinds of interesting tidbits about Hermione Granger. For example, she lamented the Gryffindor colors because she thought she was too pale to wear red. Like him, she also despised giggling girls and could pinch a Knut like nobody's business. She had a somewhat dry sense of humour, not unlike his own, and she loved ice cream, particularly chocolate mint. She didn't say it outright, but she worried a lot about Potter. And sometimes she was actually insecure about her intelligence.

He now knew all of these things, and the more he found out, the more he wanted to know. He had never suspected that beneath the bossy know-it-all and the pile of fuzzy hair there was an actual human being. He was beginning to like her much more than he should, and it made him so nervous. As a member of Slytherin House, he had survived years of torture and degradation, but he would never live it down if they knew he wanted to actually _date_ a Gryffindor.

Therefore, he had stopped flirting with her and had begun to revel in their strange friendship. He was afraid that continuing to flirt would give her the wrong idea. But, wait a minute! Hadn't his original plan been to simply get into her knickers—to use her as he had been used? He cursed himself for opening up, and yet he could not stop doing it. He had never had a real friend before. What was she doing to him? He hated to admit it, but he had lost control of the situation. He had run out of ammunition, and it didn't bother him half as much as it should have. Still, he couldn't let her know it.

His heart leapt as the door opened. "Hey, Zabini!" she called. "I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late. Ron is getting a little too curious for his own good."

She locked the door and walked over to her usual chair, sitting down heavily. "What's on the agenda for tonight?" she asked.

His heart was racing. She had absolutely no idea that he had been waiting all week for this moment. The lilting sound of her voice, the completely unladylike way she slouched back in her chair with her legs slightly parted, her hair all aglow in the light of the slide projector. He was nearly beside himself with ecstasy. His face, as usual, was completely void of expression.

"I'm sick and tired of architecture and _Pietàs_," he told her plainly. "Let's do some Painting."

"Got a brush?" she quipped weakly.

Oh, if he did, her body would be the perfect canvas. He put the brakes on that train of thought right there.

"Ha, ha," he answered sarcastically, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Is Botticelli all right with you?"

"_Perfetto_," she replied. She also seemed to be learning some Italian in her spare time. Although between studying, writing romantic fiction, and tutoring him in Muggle Studies, he couldn't figure out how she _had_ any spare time. Nevertheless, he was impressed.

"_Allora, ci cominciamo_," he said with a tiny grin. _Let's begin._

"Sandro Botticelli. First slide, please," she commanded the slide projector.

_Madonna of the Magnificat_ flashed upon the screen. He instantly fell in love with Botticelli. This was no Late Gothic _Madonna Enthroned_. No, this woman was beautiful. Granger rambled on about the writing in the book and the pomegranate symbolising Jesus'suffering. He was more interested in the fact that these people portrayed on the screen in front of him seemed to be _real_. Their movements were subtle, gentle, majestic. And Mary looked like Noemi.

"Zabini?" Granger's voice called to him.

Oops. She had caught him not paying attention.

"She looks like my sister, Noemi," he said.

"Your sister looks like _that_?" she asked.

"Well, almost. Noemi has black hair, of course."

"Blimey, Zabini, is _everyone_ in your family beautiful?"

_Whoa._ He could not believe she had just said that. And from the horrified glow on her cheeks, she couldn't believe it, either. He just stared at her, wondering what he should say. His veins felt like they were crawling in a rush of heated blood.

"I mean," she went on, fumbling a bit for words, "you're not so bad-looking yourself." He looked away. "Come on, Zabini. Surely you _know_ that."

"Neither are you, Granger," he said softly, "if the truth be told."

"Anyway," she continued quickly, "we should go on. Are you comfortable with this one?"

He wasn't comfortable at all. He drained his coffee cup and refilled it. There was no way he would make it through tonight's session in his current frame of mind. "Yes. _Madonna of the Magnificat_," he repeated. "_Andiamo_." _Let's go._

On they went through a maze of very similar paintings. He couldn't concentrate on anything she was saying. All he could think about was her gently parted knees and her firm, professor-like voice. It was driving him to insanity. He almost wanted to grab his bag and run from the room. How much longer could he take this?

"Zabini, are you okay?"

He looked over to find her staring at him curiously, one of her eyebrows arched. He wanted to grab her and kiss the living daylights out of her. _On the mouth._ What was happening to him?

"You're really quiet tonight," she commented, her voice hushed.

"I'm _always_ quiet," he spat back, sounding much more irritable than he meant to sound.

"Not lately," she replied. "You've been talking my ears off recently. Is something wrong?"

_Is something wrong? Yes, as a matter of fact. My brain is mush. My head is spinning. I'm losing my mind, and it's all your fault, you little wench. Why the hell did I ever put my hands on your bloody story?_

"I'm fine," he said nonchalantly. "I have a headache. That's all."

"How many cups of coffee have you had?"

"I don't know. Five or six. In the past hour."

"Damn, Zabini! It's a wonder the entire room isn't shaking!"

Wasn't it? He knew _he_ was, and it had nothing to do with caffeine.

"Maybe we should stop for tonight. We can meet this weekend and pick up where we left off."

"_NO!_" he exclaimed. Great Merlin. What the hell was _that_? Zabinis did not make _exclamations_ of _any_ sort. He lowered his voice. "I'm fine. Let's just go on."

On they went. _Adoration of the Magi._ _Coronation of the Virgin._ He tried not to let on that he was now actually _squirming_ in his chair. _The Return of Judith._ Oh, no. Not Judith again. Now Granger was all excited, and she was ranting and raving once again about this "heroine" who had lopped off some poor man's head. Her voice grew crisper, more musical, until he thought his heart would burst and fill his lungs with blood.

Then came the famous _Birth of Venus_. He was about to crack. He was just trying to figure out how on earth Granger could compare this naked goddess to the Virgin Mary when she stopped talking abruptly. She started..._giggling_? He had never heard her giggle before. He almost pulled a muscle in his neck as he turned his head to her to see what all the fuss was about.

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

She pointed at the screen. "The man and woman on the left," she commented quietly. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. His name is Zephyr, and the woman is his nymph."

"What about them?"

She hesitated a moment and then looked over at him, smirking. "They kind of look like _us_."

He looked at the screen again. Sure enough, he could see what she meant. Zephyr had a long, well-defined body and curly, dark hair. His nymph had Granger's bright eyes and her wild, honey-coloured hair. Zephyr's skin was dark and smooth; the nymph's flesh was porcelain white. The nymph's body was twisted all around Zephyr. Other than their skin tones, it was impossible to tell where one body began and the other one ended.

"_Basta_!" he cried, jumping out of his chair. _Enough. _He was breaking. "I'm sorry, Granger. I have to go."

"Okay," she said, gathering her bag. "We did pretty good. We almost made our way through Botticelli."

He stared at her as she rose from her chair. She was now looking at him as though she was highly concerned. She approached him, one of her hands reaching out to him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He backed away. If she touched him—if she lay one fingertip anywhere on his body—he would simply lose his grip on reality. "Really, I'm fine," he replied. "I'm sorry I wasn't more..._attentive_...tonight."

She shrugged and crossed her arms. "We all have our off days, Zabini."

"Right," he said, backing away towards the door.

"So, I'll see you next week?"

"Right. Next week."

* * *

By Thursday night, Hermione was losing it once again. She tried to write, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Then she tried to study. Her efforts were futile, to say the least. She tried to knit hats. Her hands shook so badly that they ended up all crooked. She finally gave up and went to her dormitory. Lavender and Parvati were not there, thank goodness. She lay back on her bed and thought about Zabini. 

He was acting _really_ weird. What was wrong with him? Other than the fact, of course, that he was stubbornly shy, possessed by demons, and obviously had a split personality? She groaned loudly, not caring who heard her. On Monday night, he had seemed so distant, so distracted. He probably just wanted to make an excuse to leave so he could go shag his virgin-of-the-month. She hated herself for wanting him.

Merlin, did she _want_ him, though. In fact, she was _this close_ to making a complete fool out of herself and taking matters into her own hands. What would she owe him if she broke rule number two? She added it up. Five points to Slytherin, a week's worth of Arithmancy homework, Malfoy's wand snapped in half, and an hour of free reign in the Astronomy Tower. Well, actually, they had just decided on the points. It didn't matter. It was _all_ worth it.

She took out Gardner's and flipped to the _Barberini Faun_. She licked her lips. She couldn't take it. She wanted to...she wanted to...

She didn't have time to process her feelings any further. Ginny Weasley burst through the door, her face flushed and a huge, goofy grin all over her lips. "Oh...my...God," she said, racing to Hermione's side. She threw down an issue of _Witch Weekly_ and began flipping through it. "You _must_ read this," Ginny said.

Ginny found the page she was looking for and thrust the magazine at Hermione. Still shaking slightly, her stomach twisting into knots, Hermione looked down at the dog-eared page. _"Intimate Encounters of a Darker Nature" by Rowena Ravvish._ Her competition piece. In print for all the world to read. _Holy shite._ Her face burned. She was trembling.

"I don't know _who_ this Rowena Ravvish person is," Ginny said, wiggling her eyebrows, "but she can write like nobody's business. If they keep printing her stories, I'm not going to need Dean anymore."

Hermione said nothing. She read the opening paragraph, remembering the exact moment she had written it. She frowned. She really had been an _amateur_. She didn't know how she had won. She was a much better writer _now_, she thought.

"It's odd," Ginny said. "The hero kind of reminds me of...Victor Krum."

Did she know? She _couldn't_ know, could she?

"Dark, Russian..." Ginny went on. "And he's so unbelievably sexy! When I read it, I immediately thought of you. You simply _must_ read it."

Hermione threw the magazine down. This was it. No more lying. She had reached her limit. She looked Ginny straight in the eye. "I don't have to read it, Ginny," she whispered. "_I wrote it._"

Ginny's jaw dropped. "No. _Way._"

Hermione nodded her head in tiny, stilted movements. "Ginny," she said, "can you keep a secret?"

Ginny smirked. "Depends on the secret."

"You have to _swear_."

"Okay, okay, I _swear_. I swear on my broomstick. Spill it."

Hermione reached down and dug in her bag for the letter she had gotten from _Witch Weekly_. She unfolded it and handed it to Ginny, who looked like she might topple off the bed at any minute. Ginny took the letter and began to read aloud:

_Dear Miss Ravvish,_

_We are proud to enclose your 100 Galleon prize money for your competition entry, "Intimate Encounters of a Darker Nature." As outlined in the competition rules, this story is now the property of _Witch Weekly_ and its subsidiaries, in conjunction with the Diagon Venus literary society. It will be published in the second January issue of _Witch Weekly_, and may not be otherwise reproduced...blah, blah, blah..._

_As the winner of the competition, you are entitled to a six-month contract for a romance column consisting of six entries between 8,000 and 12,000 words each. Payment for each entry is 200 Galleons, and will be made in full upon completion of the sixth entry. If you wish to comply with the enclosed contract, please sign and date it and return it with your first submission by 15 January...blah, blah, blah..._

"I can't _believe_ it!" Ginny screamed. "You cunning little wench!" She got up and started pacing around the room. "You're famous!" she cried out. "Bloody hell, you're _rich_!"

"No, Ginny," Hermione responded, trying her best to remain calm. "_Rowena Ravvish_ is famous. And I won't be _rich_ for another six months."

"But you _are_ Rowena Ravvish!" Ginny cried in glee, jumping up and down. "And what an awesome penname!"

"Shhh!!" Hermione demanded. "No one knows about this, okay?" (That was _almost_ true.) "And I want to keep it that way."

"So this was the independent study, huh?" Ginny asked, trying to compose herself. "Hermione Jane Granger..._romance columnist_!"

Hermione had to smile, despite herself. A million thoughts and questions were racing through her mind, but one rose to the surface above all the others. "Do you think anyone else will notice?"

"Notice what?"

"You know...that the hero is _Victor_."

"_Nah_," Ginny assured her, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "It's too vague. I wouldn't have known, if you hadn't told me all about it. Although..." Ginny paused and gave Hermione a devilish grin. "You obviously didn't tell me _everything_, did you?"

Hermione blushed feverishly. "Actually, Ginny, I made most of it up."

Ginny giggled and returned to the bed, sitting down heavily. "Well," she said, "you have a very _vivid_ imagination."

Hermione shrugged. "That's a writer's number one tool," she said. "Though I must admit, I'm finding that the series is a bit trickier to write."

"Lost your muse?" Ginny retorted, grinning. "Looking for a one-way stop to Bulgaria on the Floo Network?" Again, her eyebrows danced up and down suggestively.

Hermione chuckled. She had definitely told Ginny too much already. Besides, Zabini was her _new_ secret—her _new_ treasure. And she liked it that way.

"So," Ginny probed ruthlessly, "how much of it did you make up?"

"Everything but the kiss," Hermione admitted, fiddling with her robes. She wondered why she suddenly felt a bit ashamed of that fact.

"That's it?" Ginny asked, blushing. "You mean, he never even copped a feel?"

"_Copped a feel?_" Hermione repeated.

"_You_ know...no hand up the shirt?..._Nothing?_"

Hermione shuddered. That question made her think about Zabini's long, olive-coloured fingers. "Nothing," she whispered. "He was a perfect gentleman."

Ginny suddenly looked a little uneasy. "Oh," she said. "Damn. I kind of feel like a slut, then."

Hermione glanced at Ginny suspiciously. She had a feeling she was about to get too much information. But she was suddenly curious, as well. She needed details for her column, and _she_ certainly wasn't getting very far in that aspect. "You don't mean you've—"

"Sadly, yes," Ginny answered with a sigh.

"Why, you little _devil_," Hermione whispered. "_Dean?_" She tried to imagine it. Then she decided she didn't _want_ to imagine it. But, then again, she kind of _did_.

"No," Ginny said. "I don't think you know him. It was during that week that Dean and I were broken up."

"What?!"

"Hermione, Dean wouldn't even _kiss_ me at that point. I guess he was afraid that Ron would hurl him through a goal post or something. Well, I'd had enough. And it was after a Quidditch game. _You_ know...the first game against Slytherin. I don't know why, but nearly knocking people dead really turns me on."

"I can't believe you're telling me this."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"No! " Hermione cried. Then, in a softer voice, she added, "

Ginny got that mischievous look in her eyes again. "He really didn't have that much choice in the matter. I don't know what came over me. I had just come back inside, and I saw him standing there, looking all lost and defenseless, and I just _took_ it."

"You _what_? I mean, _not_ right there in the _hall_?"

"No, of course not. I shoved him into a broom closet." She started giggling. "Poor little boy. I don't think he even realised what was happening until I ripped his robe off of him."

"_You WHAT?!_"

"Yeah, he was pretty shocked for a minute. But once he figured it out, he didn't seem to mind. Anyway, that was it."

Hermione was stunned. Speechless. And somewhat intrigued. She idly wondered if that whole surprise-attack thing would work on Zabini. But it didn't seem very romantic. Of course, she didn't tell Ginny that. She just sat there fidgeting. "Well..."

"Do you think I'm horrible?" Ginny asked tentatively.

"_No_, Ginny," she said with a sigh, secretly somewhat jealous of her, "I don't think you're horrible." Ginny looked relieved, and Hermione went on, "In fact, I asked your mother to send me some romance novels about a month ago, and she said she thought it was perfectly normal."

"Mum said _that_?" Ginny appeared to be absolutely aghast.

"Believe it or not," Hermione replied.

"Well."

"Indeed."

"So, anyway..."

"Yep."

"Okay."

They were quickly running out of one-word sentiments. Ginny looked ashamed. Hermione wanted to be anywhere else. Actually, there was _one_ place she wanted to be above all others. She looked down at her clock. "Nine-twenty," she said aloud, just to have something to say.

"Still early," Ginny replied.

"Yeah. I think I'll go to the library. I'm working on Part II now."

"Oooh," said Ginny. "Do I get special privileges? I mean, as the long-time friend of our rising romance author, can I be the first to read Part I?"

Hermione smiled. "Too late," she said. "I owled Part I over Christmas." It was her turn to look mischievous. "You'll just have to wait, like everyone else.... And it's really _good_, too."

"Please!" Ginny begged. "Tell me _something_ about it."

"Okay, I'll tell you one thing," Hermione replied. "There's this really interesting scene involving a filing cabinet."

Ginny squeaked. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"Imagination," Hermione replied simply, in a tone of voice to rival Zabini's. She packed her bag and headed for the door, Ginny not far behind. "Remember...not a word, okay?"

"My lips are sealed," Ginny answered.

Ginny was no Lavender or Parvati. She knew she could trust her. And it felt so _wonderful _to finally tell someone!

She raced through the common room, through the portrait hole, down the corridor. She still had the _Barberini Faun_ on her mind, and she wasn't stopping until she had him spread out on that big screen in front of her, larger than life and larger than all her fantasies.

Her conversation with Ginny had done nothing but further fuel her raging hormones. She thought about Zabini, about rule number two, about a broom closet, about a surprise attack.

Her feet moved even faster beneath her.

She thought about Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_. About Zephyr and his nymph, their bodies tangling together like serpents. Dark skin on pale-white skin. Hair mingling. Eyes wide open and alert. Intrigued. Enraptured.

Her body ached.

She thought about Judith, the seductress. Holofernes, helpless. Zabini, against a wall. And _she_ had him trapped there. The snake, caught in the mouth of a lion. The tiger tamed.

Her blood raced.

She thought about Michelangelo's _Slaves_, struggling in their marble prisons. Bodies writhing and twisting. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Fighting to free themselves. Fighting for release. Squirming, motionlessly. Aching and moaning, with no sign of relief in sight.

Aching. Relief. Release.

She paced in front of the blank stretch of wall. If she had ever needed anything in her life, she needed this right now. She needed a screen. A slide projector. Greek Hellenistic sculpture. And a couch—the Roman kind, that was more like a bed. She needed it now.

The door presented itself politely. She tossed it open, entered the room, dropped her bag. Slammed the door. Locked it. Looked up. There he was.

_Mister Greek Sculpture. The Barberini Faun. _Hair tousled. Chest wide and open. Legs splayed. Phallus unfortunately missing. She chuckled.

She moved to the couch and lay down, staring. She got comfortable.

In her mind, the sculpture was Zabini. Asleep and defenseless. She wanted to pounce. To take him by surprise. She could. She would.

"Give me everything you've got!" she demanded of the slide projector. "The Dying Gaul. The Laocoön group. Hermes. Athena. Hell, give me Venus, too. Just make it Greek and keep it coming!"

The slide projector obeyed. The images began to flash, one right after another. People twisting. Struggling. Sleeping. Weeping. Bathing. Dying. _Living._

The buzz of the slide projector was maddening—steady, relentless. A rattle and hum, like something between the growl of a lion and the hiss of a snake.

Bees buzzing. Blossoms opening. Rain pattering. A crescent moon hanging. An old man moaning. A wolf howling. Bacchantes dancing. _Wine dripping._

She felt it all, like lightning. She reached down. She felt her own flesh, deliciously hot and wet. _Venus. She was Venus._

"Faster!" she cried.

The images flashed. Clicked. Moved. A crippled old woman became a sleeping Cupid. A man and his sons fought a serpent. A woman's robes hung at her hips. A drunken satyr attacked a resisting nymph. A man sliced his own throat to prevent defeat at the hand of his enemy. A god held a child, dangling grapes before him. Teasingly. Tauntingly.

Ah, all of humanity! All right in front of her! And only one thought in her mind.... Only one word on her tongue!

"_BLAISE!!"_

She thrashed about helplessly. She thought she might suffocate.

"Stop," she whimpered.

The images stopped. A dead halt. The _Barberini Faun_.

She lay there, panting. Fighting for precious air and for her own sanity. Her lips were dry. Her hair was damp. She shook from head to toe.

When she could stand, she went for the door. She grabbed her bag and exited the room, never looking back.

* * *

Blaise just sat there. Fully clothed. Head in his hands. He had been asleep when she came in. He wished he had stayed that way. But _no one_ could have slept through _that_. 

_She said my name._

He had come in to study. He had not bothered to lock the door. He had pushed a chair to the very back of the room, wanting to look at things from a different perspective. Wanting to get a different view. And did he _ever_.

_She said my name._

He had fallen asleep, lulled into a dream state by the hum of the slide projector. He had awoken, helplessly trapped in the whole situation. He had tried not to watch. He had really, really tried not to _look_.

_She. Said. My. Name._

He had the perfect ammunition. He would never, ever use it.

* * *

¹ Direct quote from _Word Origins and Their Romantic Meanings_ by Wilfred Funk, Litt.D. Funk & Wagnalls: New York, 1950. My favourite book on etymology. 

**More A/N:  
**Hehehe. What is it about _(ahem!)_ self-gratification that turns people off? Studies show that three-quarters of the human race do it. Personally, I think the other quarter is lying about it.

Oh, well, I tried to make it as tasteful as possible. I really just wanted to torment Blaise. I'm determined to make him crack.

And yes, I know that Ginny and Hermione were a little too giggly, and that this chapter was a little too choppy near the end. Forgive me.

I have put links to fairly good pics of the _Barberini Faun_ and _Birth of Venus_ on my bio page, for anyone who would like to look at these fine pieces of art.

**_To my lovely reviewers, for whom carpel-tunnel syndrome is all worthwhile. This is the part where I thank you and then divulge some of my secrets:_**

**hoofservant: **Ah, yes, my dear. Bouncing and wiggling will _also_ get you everywhere. (Or at least, if nothing else, it makes me update more quickly.) I'm so happy to tease you. For me, writing is like sex. No, it's _better_ than sex. Because I get to pin you, the reader, down. I get to torment you with my typing fingers. And if I'm REALLY lucky, I get to hear you beg. Believe me, however, when I say that it is _I_ who is at _your_ mercy. _Grazie mille_.

**Zaralya:** You're right. Blaise does not come from a picture-perfect family. Your review lets me know that I am doing my job. There is definitely a reason why he is so cold, so emotionless. A million thanks for reading and reviewing!

**trova: **It's funny, isn't it?... How these little things we learn in school keep popping up again and again in the most unexpected places? I urge you to embrace your education. Once it's over, you'll be begging to go back. Thank you for continuing to read and review!

**Kurayami Pansa: **Yeah. Insecure-In-An-Obsessive-Kind-Of-Way! is more Draco's style, I think. Blaise is much too perceptive for that. But how do you like Tormented-By-Watching-Hermione-Get-Off!Blaise? Poor, poor little boy. Hehehe. And thanks for the welcome back! You're wonderful!

**Dixi:** I can't believe you would think of my update as a reward! I'm so flattered! Out of curiosity, what was your seminar paper about? Oh, and Massimo is much more than a used car salesman. You'll find out in a few chapters. My ultimate goal here is to link _Harry Potter_ with _The Godfather_. Those are my two favourite things on earth!

**Procella Nox-noctis:** 'Cella, thank you SO MUCH for linking my fic! I am horribly embarrassed to admit that I couldn't figure out how to do it myself. Sorry to disappoint you, but rule number two will be carefully danced around for awhile longer. I can promise it will be worth the wait, though! Thanks again!

**Louise:** Thank you! Is this enough tension for you? Ah, Noemi...the feminist, the independent woman. I just love her. God, I'm lucky to have reviewers like you!

**flatfoot-92**: You're still here! I thought I had lost you! Let me emphasize that I certainly did not want to offend anyone. I was raised in a Baptist church, but you must admit that Christian philosophy is not so nice to women. (Ahem!—_Paul_) I can't help but let my own opinions shine through. And I'm very happy that you are still able to enjoy my fic. Thank you for your review!

**imogenhm:** Thank you! Here's more!

**Pallas Athena1: **_Ti amo, dolcezza mia._ This you know. And you're right! Hermione is starting to realise her power. Judith is the very basis of this story, and I am humbly pleased to have you acknowledge that. (In fact, Judith has more to do with this story than meets the eye. I'm sure you have it figured out.) I BOW DOWN TO YOU FOR UPDATING _GREY_. I'm on a different end of the spectrum from you, but I have a feeling we'll meet in the same place. Maybe. _Ti amo._

**GemStew:** Oh my god, I got a "DARLING!" Thank you for that! I can't tell you on here what I would do with a Blaise Zabini if I had one. I would surely be banned. You get the picture.

**Aruca:** What a fantastic compliment! If I can make you smirk, I've done my job. And I know just how you feel. I read Italian books (I especially love _Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo_), but writing in Italian is quite a different story! Thanks again!

**tweetygurl88:** Applause for _moi_? Thank you!

**Donroth:** Yes, Blaise is quite addictive! (Granted, he's still no _Lucius_, though! Pallas is really doing a number on my brain. And please never talk about Lucius tied to a bed under the Imperius Curse again. It makes me unable to sleep at night. Mmmm.) Anyway, I had you drooling and fainting? Mission accomplished!

**conquistador: **Thanks for checking it out! Ah yes, the power play. It's a constant tug of war. God, I love Zabini.

**HogwartzBoizRHottiez: **Thanks! In my mind, Blaise kind of looks like a cross between Peter Facinelli and Shia LaBeouf... Hope you like this chapter!

**Aurora Hyperion:** Thanks so much! Engrossing? Wow! Ah, this human condition we all share! It's a beautiful thing.


	8. Some Sign of Pursuit

**Disclaimer: **All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.

**Summary: **Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.

**Spoilers: **All 5 books. And if you haven't yet read your way through OOTP, then you might consider crawling out of that cave you're living in.

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to **gehenna79**. She heard it first, though I somehow doubt many of the details were coherent at the time. Thanks for crawling out of lurkdom, gehenna.

* * *

_**Diagon Venus**_

**Chapter 8 – Some Sign of Pursuit**

_Disregard my nervousness  
__Please ignore my vacant stares  
__It's just what I've been through  
__It's nothing like where I'm going to  
__Give me some sign of pursuit, a promise.  
__--Violent Femmes_

Hermione awoke later than usual the next morning, completely rejuvenated. It was the best night of sleep she had had in ages. She stretched and yawned triumphantly and jumped out of bed in one cheeky little bounce. She actually _skipped_ over to her mirror, humming to herself quite heartily. She caught her reflection and grinned, as she found someone completely different looking back at her.

Rowena Ravvish.

Wicked, naughty vixen and romance-columnist-extraordinaire.

Okay, so she still looked like plain old Hermione Granger. But she _felt_ like a goddess. And it was Friday, that beautiful, blessed day of the week named after the goddess of love herself. _Venerdi_. Ah, yes. She was invincible. Unstoppable.

_Warn the town. The beast is loose._

When she arrived at breakfast, Harry and Ron were having a particularly heated conversation about Quidditch moves. Their match against Ravenclaw was the next day, and she was glad. Although she wasn't exactly a die-hard fan of the game, at least Quidditch caused Harry to put his crystal ball to the back of his mind. From the way he was talking, he also seemed to be hell-bent and determined to get one over on Cho. Dean Thomas kept trying to throw in comments about soccer strategies. This made Ginny roll her eyes and Ron look even more homicidal than ever towards his fellow sixth-year.

"Morning!" Ginny greeted her as Hermione scooted onto the bench with that perpetually goofy grin on her face. "What are _you_ so happy about?"

"It's just such a lovely day!" Hermione exclaimed, exhaling loudly and stretching once again. She chanced a glimpse at Zabini, who, as usual, was buried in a book. "Don't you think?"

Ginny looked up at the ceiling, which was a particularly nasty shade of grey. "It's raining, Hermione," she replied bluntly. "And it's about twenty degrees below zero out there. _And _I have Care of Magical Creatures this morning. I'm trying my best, I swear, but _lovely_ just isn't the word I have in mind right now."

There was no other way to describe it, though. It was lovely. She was strangely elated, liberated. She walked to Potions with light, bouncy little steps, whistling every Roy Orbison song she had ever heard in her childhood. (Her father loved Roy.) People looked at her oddly. She grinned and waved at them, which made them look at her even _more_ oddly. She vaguely wondered how many of them had read her column in _Witch Weekly_. Not enough, apparently, or they might have done as she had done the previous night. And then _they_ would have been smiling as well.

As she passed a classroom on the first floor, she saw Dennis Creevey and a group of his buddies congregating around a handful of dungbombs. Damn. Just when she was in such a good mood, she was forced to accept some responsibility. She really didn't feel like a prefect at the moment. Nonetheless, she skipped over to them, trying to look authoritative but unable to stop smirking.

"Dennis," she cooed, ruffling his hair as though he was a toddler, "What have you got there?"

He fought back a strangled gulp, an expression across his face that was somewhere between fear at being caught and shock at her demeanor. "N-nothing?" he replied weakly.

"Dennis, do I look like I was born yesterday?" she grilled him, smiling all the while. "Let's see, then."

He held out his hand reluctantly.

"Just as I thought," she said. "Dungbombs. So, what is it? Trying to get out of an exam? Or are you just bored?"

"The latter," he responded with a sigh.

"I see." She leaned even closer and continued in a very soft voice, "Well, be a good boy. If you _must_ set them off, then please do it in the greenhouse or the boys' bathroom. Then it's Ron's problem instead of mine." She winked. "Got it?"

But she didn't wait around to catch his reaction. She continued merrily on her way. Ah, what a lovely day! She plopped down beside Harry in Potions, and Snape was upon her almost immediately. He looked so stern and menacing that she almost laughed out loud at him. What an idiot! He _really_ needed to get laid.

"You're late, Miss Granger. And what are you smirking about?" he asked suspiciously.

"I don't know," she exclaimed, flinging her arms out in front of her. "I'm just so _happy_ today!"

"Really?" he replied. His arms were crossed firmly, and he stared down at her with barely hidden contempt. "Then you must be up to something. Five points from Gryffindor."

"Ahhh, _Severus_," she purred, leaning forward over her cauldron, "let's make it an even ten, shall we?"

Harry's jaw dropped. Snape's initial shock quickly morphed into vehemence. "Let's make it _twenty_," he spat back, and now he was the one leaning closer. His voice was quieter. "And one more outburst like that, _Hermione_, and you'll have detention as well." He spun around and strode off towards his pet Slytherins.

She giggled, but Harry looked furious. "_Twenty points?!_" he whispered harshly. "Hermione, what the bloody hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"Oh, spare me," she answered, merrily crushing her scarab beetles. "It was worth it just to see the look on his face. Besides, I'll get the points back for us in Arithmancy." She gave him a naughty little grin. "Merlin, Harry, you need to _relax_!"

Harry looked torn between hexing her and checking her for signs of fever. "Relax?!" he cried under his breath. "You're telling _me_ to relax?"

She did not reply. Instead, she sighed heavily and glanced over at Zabini. He was studying her with a suspicious look on his face, and he jumped slightly when she caught him. She smiled, batted her eyelashes, and gave him an innocent little wave. His eyes grew painfully wide for a moment, and then he darted back around in his seat, his face flushing. She giggled again. Harry ignored her completely. But that was okay—by now, in fact, she was used to it.

The lesson flew by in a haze. She bottled a vial of perfectly brewed Restlessness Potion and, much to Snape's dismay, presented it to him with another smile and a wink. She walked back to her desk past Zabini, who seemed to be highly uncomfortable for some reason. Wonderful! She would take advantage of that.

She cornered him in the corridor after class—not giving a damn _who_ might see them—and backed him up against a wall. He said nothing. He tried his best to look indifferent, but there was a hunted look about his dark blue eyes, as though he had just been caught stealing from Snape's personal supply cabinet. His eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at her face, which was quickly inching closer to him. "Granger," he whispered, "What are you—"

She grabbed him by his necktie, cutting him off, but she still did not say anything. Merlin, was he squirming? Huh! It kind of suited him. She pulled him down until their noses were nearly touching, just looking at him, drinking in the cornered look in his eyes. He shuddered slightly, and then he tried to regain his composure. Of course, that was difficult to do while she had such a firm hold on an object that was wrapped around his windpipe. Ohhh, she could have stayed in this exact position all day long. Too bad she had to go to Charms.

"Granger, I—"

"Shut it, Zabini," she commanded. She barely recognised her own voice, so husky and forceful. "You know," she said, tilting her head to the side to get a better view of his nervous features, "you have wonderful lips."

"Er, thank you?" he whispered, his eyes going at once to her own lips, only inches away.

"I can't help but wonder," she continued, not knowing where this was coming from, "what you could do with them."

Bloody hell! Did he just..._grunt_? Or was that a whimper?

"It's too bad about rule number two," she went on recklessly. "Me and my _stupid rules_. This doesn't count, does it? I mean I'm really not actually touching _you_...just your necktie. Hmm. You look..._pale_. What's the matter?"

"You're choking me, Granger," he answered listlessly.

"That's funny. That wasn't my intention at all."

"I don't care _what_ your intentions might be," he whispered. "I can't breathe."

"Yet you can talk."

"Strange, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

She grabbed his tie even more tightly and brought his ear down to her lips. That sweet, golden brown jaw line was right there—her mouth so tauntingly close to it. His hair had that gorgeous, sweet smell of wet maple leaves that she adored so much. Her lips found his earlobe but did not touch it. She secretly wanted to bite down on that soft, tender piece of flesh—she almost wanted to _draw blood_—but she would not allow herself to even brush her lips against it. Instead, she allowed herself to whisper to him—

"This is a little something that I like to call..._revenge_." She put her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolled it while she exhaled softly. Ha! It had taken her a week to master that skill. It made a soft, fluttery sound against his ear like the buzz of a cicada. She felt him jerk, and she pulled her head back, triumphantly noting the goose bumps across the dark skin of his neck.

"Don't you have class or something?" he said at last.

"Oh, that's right!" she exclaimed suddenly, dropping her hold on his tie. Oddly enough, his face stayed exactly where it was. She giggled again, watching him cringe at the sound. "I should go."

And she left him standing there, looking quite perplexed.

The day went on in much the same way. Sweet glory! It was empowering to not give a damn about anything. She now understood why Zabini lived his whole life that way—cold and apathetic and completely detached. To master one's own insecurities, it seemed, was to be in control of everyone else.

In Charms, she ruthlessly scribbled the smuttiest fiction she had ever written, right in front of Ron, who read one or two sentences and promptly scooted his chair as far away from her as possible. In Arithmancy, she brazenly smirked at Zabini, who tried (and failed) to properly ignore her. In Ancient Runes, she won back the twenty points that Snape had taken when she went to the blackboard and solved one of Professor Coda's trickiest hieroglyphs yet. But she didn't stop there.

"Professor," she insisted, "I have a question about a very _unusual_ hieroglyph. I found it in an old book. May I get your opinion?"

"Of course, Miss Granger," Professor Coda replied, still beaming at her over her code-breaking skills.

Hermione took her time, omitting no details, as she innocently drew a very large rendering of a hieroglyph that she knew to represent the term _cunnilingus_.

"That will do, Miss Granger!" Professor Coda interrupted, just before she was able to add the final flourishes. The Professor immediately cleared the blackboard with one wave of her wand before any of the other students had a chance to sketch the symbol. She then cleared her throat, blushing slightly, and added, "I don't expect you will encounter _that_ one on your N.E.W.T.s. Please see me in private if you are still especially curious."

Hermione shrugged and returned to her seat. She did not, of course, have any intention of seeing Professor Coda after class.

Sweet indifference! The world was at her mercy! Why had she never had the gall to do any of this before? She even noticed a few Ravenclaw boys from her Ancient Runes class giving her quite suggestive glimpses on her way to dinner. (They must have figured out what the hieroglyph symbolised.) She took advantage of the sudden attention, shaking her hips in a much more exaggerated fashion than usual as she passed them. They could eat their hearts out! She was on a roll.

But alas, all good things must end, and her end came in the form of Draco Malfoy as she turned down the corridor to the Grand staircase. She didn't notice Malfoy at first. All she knew was that she was slammed into a wall by a boy whom she knew to be Theodore Nott, the contents of her bag nearly spilling out. Her eyes widened in horror and then outrage as Malfoy shoved Nott to the side and then turned to her with furious, thundercloud-grey eyes. He said nothing. Of course, he wasn't going to repeat _that_ mistake. He simply glared at her, malice seething in his pale complexion, as he motioned for Nott to say something.

"Malfoy wants to know what kind of charm you've put on him," Nott said lazily.

It figured that Malfoy would choose Nott for this task instead of Crabbe and Goyle. After all, Nott was one of the few Slytherins in their year that had half a brain. She just stood there, trembling with rage. Nott grabbed her wrist as she went for her wand. It must have been hell for Malfoy, she thought, a tiny bit amused by the situation. There he stood—probably wanting to curse her for all she was worth—and he couldn't say a word. She felt a leap of gratitude for Zabini, deep in her chest, but it was quickly extinguished as Nott's grip on her tightened. Again, she did the only thing she could think to do. She took the deepest breath of her life and screamed as loud as she could—

"_FIRE! FIRE IN THE—_"

Malfoy cut her off, clamping his hand over her mouth as hard as he could, but only for a moment. And then _he_ was the one who was screaming. He held out his hand, which burned as red as Priscilla Pernicia's robes and was rapidly swelling and blistering right before her eyes. She gasped. In the confusion, Nott let go of her, and she ran, not even feeling her legs beneath her. She ran all the way back to the Gryffindor common room. She was not hungry anymore.

* * *

Blaise did something very unusual on Saturday morning. He slept until nine o'clock. Granted, he had not really gone to sleep until four in the morning, and the five hours of sleep he had gotten consisted of a lot of strange dreams and tossing and turning. It had not yet been two days since he had witnessed Granger's little show. He patiently waited for his brain to stop whirling, but it simply wouldn't. 

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. He couldn't do anything but drink coffee and replay that image over and over again in his mind. Her head thrown back with the mounting tension of her pleasure, her lips slightly dry and parted. Her chest, heaving with the ferocity of her heavy, quick breaths. Her hand, working herself deeper and deeper into a fit of ecstasy.

He couldn't take it. He tried to think about word origins, about spiders, about potion ingredients—anything to distract his rampant thoughts—but it was no use. He jolted up in bed and slung the curtains aside, his eyes darting all around the room for a distraction. The room was empty. He remembered that there was a Quidditch match this morning. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. He was completely alone.

_She said my name._

It wasn't his _surname_, either. She had said—no, _screamed_—his _given_ name, that one little syllable reverberating momentarily off the walls and infinitely off his psyche. He clicked on his coffeemaker and stuffed his hands into his hair. Merlin, his name sounded good on her lips, her voice so high and strained and desperate.

He got up and began pacing around the room. If he didn't keep moving, he was going to have to do as she had done, and Blaise _rarely_ pleasured himself. He was just the type of person whose brain worked forty times harder than his hormones. And his pain wasn't coming from his arousal, anyway. It was coming from his complete and utter confusion. Here he was—supposedly the luckiest bastard in the world for getting the view he had gotten—and he couldn't even stop thinking long enough to _wank off_. Pathetic.

The one thought that kept harassing him—the one thought that disabled him from getting really, truly aroused—was _Padma_. With a very sick feeling in his stomach, he remembered the last time he had gotten intimate with another person. One thing was painfully obvious now. Granger definitely thought about him in _that way_. This meant that, if he liked her at all, he could never, _ever_ shag her. It meant that the odd friendship he had unwittingly created between them was completely null and void. Now, she would simply use him. Now he was stuck in the same old predicament.

Padma's words still tumbled through his head... "_Surely you know that I was just using you._"

But he thought this was so much more! He thought Granger was different. For the first time since that night in the greenhouse, he felt an overbearing and overwhelming sense of despair. His heart _broke_ over the duality of sex. He had tried so hard to keep the art history lessons platonic. In fact, he had reveled in the security of rule number two without even knowing it. And Granger had broken rule number two, as far as he was concerned, by touching _herself_ with _his name_ on her lips.

And then she had the nerve—in the glorious aftermath of her own release—to corner him against a wall. She had the nerve to grab him by the necktie and jerk his face down close enough to hers that he couldn't hide his wild confusion. She might as well have grabbed him by the balls. It had been such a Padma-like move on her part, but she couldn't have known that. Could she?

Judith. Damn bloody stinking Judith. Was he a Slytherin or not? A new emotion played him—_anger_. Bitter, resentful, white-hot anger. He would be damned before he let he get the upper hand again. He would simply shut it off—these emotions that threatened to destroy him. After all, _she_ wanted him. The prowling panther inside of him gave a sudden, nimble growl. His original game was going more perfectly than he had imagined. She was in the palm of his hand...wasn't she?

A feathery object made sudden, painful contact with his skull, knocking him to his senses. One "hoot" later, he realised that it was a barn owl that looked much worse for the wear. It carried a large manila envelope, which he tore open immediately. The owl left through the open window as quickly as it had come.

A letter fell out of the envelope, along with several blank postcards. One postcard bore the image of Michelangelo's _David_, the other one Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_. This gave him a pretty good idea of who the letter was from, and he opened it quickly, ignoring the sizzling coffeemaker that gurgled its last few drops on his bedside table.

_Topolino,_

_Ciao! Thank you for the thank you note. I was so happy to hear from you! I made it back to Florence after the holidays, with missing luggage, a very bad hangover, and a silent vow to disown myself from the Zabini family for good. Let me know if you'd like to join me in that regard._

_Now, about this girl. Who is she? Does Massimo know about her? You and your two-sentence updates! Really, Blaise, you'll be much better off if you stop trying to fight it. And do tell me more. You have certainly peaked my interest._

_I shouldn't be writing this right now. I am in a very disagreeable mood. I was going for a contract with a local opera company when I realised that the owner was more interested in my breasts than my line of footwear. I promptly gave him the address of a local brothel and took my talents elsewhere. Granted, "elsewhere" at the moment consists of repairing boots for old women. I thank the gods everyday, through gritted teeth, for their mercy._

_Am I the "lucky one"? I hadn't noticed. But if I am the lucky one, darling, it's because I've made my own luck._

_Write back soon—  
__Ti amo,  
__Noemi_

_P.S. I understand that you're studying art this year at school, so I am including a few postcards from the Citta d'Arte itself._

Now he was even more frustrated, if it was possible. He felt self-indulgent and ashamed of himself. And he wanted to kill himself an opera company owner. Men and women! Did it ever end? He fell onto his bed, sighing heavily.

_I am a Slytherin. I will get what I want. I will unapologetically take what I want. What is it that I want again? Oh yeah. I want to use her. I want to shag her senseless, body and soul. I want to bring her down a notch. The only problem is that she's not as high-and-mighty as I thought she was. She's normal. Okay, maybe she's a bit obsessive, but that's normal, isn't it? I'm a bit obsessive as well. I'm obsessing right now._

"ARGH!" he yelled. He was tossing and turning again.

_Millicent used me. Hannah used me. Ginny used me (mercilessly). Lisa used me. Padma used me (and then laughed in my face about it). Hermione Granger will not use me. I need a weapon. Something I can use against her. Bring her to her knees. I already have a weapon, don't I? No. I can never let her know I saw her. Ah, but it's perfect. Now I know exactly how she wants to be touched. Ah yes, she will be putty in my hands. She will be helpless._

Helpless!

_Bloody hell, she looked helpless the other night. I shouldn't have watched. I would be mortified if someone had caught me in that position. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Interrupt her? Stand up and say, "I'm sorry, Granger. Just let me get out of here, and you can continue...?" I bet she did this on purpose. No, I know she didn't. She had no idea I was there. Why?! Why did I have to go look at art that night? Why didn't I lock the door?_

He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to smother himself with the covers.

_Block it out. I just have to block it out. I have to forget about it, or I'm going to go crazy. Dio Mio! How can I face her on Monday night? How can I sit back and talk about bleeding Donatello, when I know now what this stuff does to her? Maybe I should get sick on Monday. Maybe I should just call this whole thing off. I don't really need her anymore. My marks are much better now in Muggle Studies. Well, maybe just one more session. Yes, just one more, and then I'll tell her we're done. I'm sure she'll be relieved._

It was getting hard to breathe under the covers. He wondered if he might suffocate. Then, he mused, he could possibly get sent to the hospital wing and avoid her for awhile longer.

_I feel so guilty. She really has been trying to help me, I think. I should do something for her. Hmmm...Valentine's Day is coming up. Yes, that's it! I'll get her something for Valentine's Day. Something special. Something to show my appreciation.... Something to make her think I'm kind and thoughtful. Something that will make her trust me enough to spread those lovely legs. Ah, yes. And then it will all be over. I'll have her right where I want her. I can add her initials to my journal—my first actual triumph—and turn the page. Get on with it..._

He didn't know how long he lay there, or whether or not what he had been doing could be officially called "sleep," when he heard voices. Malfoy and his cronies, back from the Quidditch match, sounding blissfully exuberant. Ravenclaw must have beat Gryffindor. _So what?_

"Did you see his face?" Malfoy cheerfully retorted. "Potter is obviously losing his touch. I can't wait to flatten them in the final. All we have to do is beat Ravenclaw by forty points. Which reminds me, someone needs to explain to Warrington how to add before the next match."

Several snorts and sniggers followed this statement. Well, at least listening to them ramble idiotically was better than thinking about Granger.

"Still asleep, Zabini?" Malfoy addressed him, apparently from across the room. "You missed a great match."

Blaise reluctantly threw the covers off and sat up, pouring himself a cup of very old, strong coffee at last. Malfoy was suddenly standing in front of him with his arms crossed. He had that ravenous, sadistic look on his face—the one he always wore when somebody got one over on Potter.

"Your sister was there," Malfoy said, a sleazy smirk crossing his face. "The blonde. What's her name again?"

"Genelle," Blaise muttered. Or, at least he assumed it must have been Genelle. She loved Quidditch. Besides, Monique was a brunette the last time Blaise saw her, and Noemi was in Italy.

"Ah yes, _Genelle_," Malfoy repeated. His eyes were gleaming. He looked like he wanted to pick a fight. "Don't tell me your father's conquests as a bookie have been expanded to include Hogwarts Quidditch matches."

Blaise said nothing. He merely sipped his coffee, which had gone somewhat lukewarm over the course of the morning.

"Not that I'm complaining," Malfoy went on. "Your sister is _hot_. Single, too, isn't she?"

Blaise blinked a few times, but that was the only semblance of emotion he allowed himself to show. "Single?" Blaise said, quite apathetically. "Malfoy, Genelle would chew you up and spit you out."

"Kinky," Malfoy whispered. He plopped down on his bed, kicking off his shoes, and watched Blaise watch him. Crabbe and Goyle were in their corner of the dormitory rehashing the finer points of the game. "So, what's going on?"

Blaise stopped mid-sip and wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming. Again, he blinked. "Are you trying to have a conversation with me, Malfoy?" he asked plainly.

"Quite pointless, I know," Malfoy said, lazily smoothing out his bedcovers. "But yes, I believe I am. I want to know what's going on between you and that Gryffindor slut."

"What?" Blaise shot back, more suddenly and fiercely than he had intended.

"I saw you outside of Potions yesterday," Malfoy drawled. "Quite a scene. You looked rather..._intimate_."

Blaise cocked his head to the side and observed the blonde ferret carefully. Malfoy was clearly assessing his every breath. He knew that anything he said could and would be held against him. Then again, he knew that his silence was also incriminating in this instance.

"Intimate?" Blaise repeated, trying to buy some time. "I would hardly describe my association with Granger as intimate. _Frustrating_ at times, perhaps."

"I see we have something in common, then." Malfoy began running his thumb along the bottom of his chin. Blaise did not like the look in his eyes one bit. He looked like someone who had a gut feeling they were being played but no supporting evidence, and he looked determined to correct that little detail. "Maybe you can help me."

"Why would I do that?" Blaise asked numbly.

"Oh, I don't know...House pride perhaps? And I _am_ a _prefect_, Zabini. You try to act so low-key, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to find some dirt on you. _If I really wanted to._"

Blaise really hated the slimy git. Luckily, his face didn't show it.

"I thought about what you said the other night," Malfoy continued. "And as absurd as it seems, I think you're right. I think she _does_ have some type of..._secret admirer_." Malfoy nearly choked over the words. Blaise did not move. "And I want to know who it is."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Blaise answered. He would not even let himself shrug. Any movement at all—a shrug of the shoulders, a hand running through his hair, a dart of his eyes—could be misconstrued as nervousness. If there was one thing Massimo had taught him, it was how to lie.

"I see," Malfoy whispered. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy had taught Draco, it was how to tell when people were lying. But, at the moment, they were both at a standstill. They had both been taught well.

"You have classes with the brat," Malfoy said finally. "Classes I'm not taking. I want you to keep an eye on her. Tell me if you see anything...strange. To be quite frank, I don't think Potter or Weasley are capable of _this_ type of magic."

At this statement, Malfoy help up his right palm. It was red and swollen, as though he had placed it directly on a steaming cauldron.

White, hot, raging lunacy hit Blaise's brain. Fury like that he had never known. Sharp, biting, untainted, all-consuming wrath. Blaise could feel his heartbeat in his eardrums—loud, fast, almost mechanical. Luckily, he did not go red. He was beyond even that. But he had to get out of that room _immediately_.

"Interesting," Blaise responded quietly, his voice completely shallow and schooled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a bath and head for Hogsmeade."

"Then you'll help me?" Malfoy asked, smirking.

Blaise looked straight into those steel-grey eyes, hatred ripping at his stomach. Help him? He would help him, all right. He would make sure to help him right over a cliff.

"Sure," he said with a nod.

* * *

Hermione thought that Valentine's Day was the most worthless holiday of the year. Every year it was the same. Girls swooned and boys made complete idiots of themselves. Lavender and Parvati would awake two hours early and spend triple the normal amount of time primping. Hermione would get a box of chocolates from her parents, and Ron would most unromantically beg her to surrender at least half the box to him before lunch. Valentine's Day. What a worthless, pathetic, sappy load of _shite_. 

However, when she sat down at breakfast on that dull Tuesday morning, three events happened in quick succession that caused her to suddenly re-evaluate this pitiful excuse for a holiday. The first thing that happened was that she glanced up at Harry and saw something on his neck. Something pink and round, which was definitely not the result of a misfired hex. Harry had a _love bite_.

Before she could even process this fact, Ginny arrived and tossed the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_ in front of her, opened to Part I of her column. It had been printed as a special Valentine's Day insert. "Rowena Ravvish has outdone herself again," Ginny declared. "That copy is for you."

And just as her mind was about to explode from confusion and curiosity, the third thing happened. A group of owls flew overhead and dropped not one, but _two_ parcels in front of her. She just sat there for a moment, frozen, wondering if she had walked into someone else's life. Finally, she stuffed the magazine into her bag and tossed Ron the box of chocolates from her parents, which he had already begun to eye droolingly.

"_Harry_," she said, completely ignoring the fact that an unopened mystery parcel lay in front of her, "what the _hell_ is that on your _neck_?"

Harry turned almost purple and shifted his collar up nervously. "Potions accident," he mumbled. Then he returned to the essay he was writing.

"Who's sending you a Valentine's gift?" Ron demanded.

Reluctantly, she looked down at the long, thin red box on the table in front of her plate. The box was made of heavy, shiny cardboard and secured with a white velvet ribbon. It lay there so pristinely—so innocently—as if to say, "Bet you didn't see _this_ one coming." Ron and Ginny were both staring at her as though she had just announced that she was quitting school and running off to join the circus.

"Well, it's obviously a mistake," she answered firmly. "That's what it is."

Harry completely ignored them all. Ron sat there with his mouth wide open, a half-eaten piece of chocolate at his lips. Ginny grinned from ear to ear.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Ginny urged her.

"No," she told Ginny. "I mean, it can't be for _me_. There's no name on it, and it got plunked down between the two of us. It's probably something for you. From Dean."

"That owl definitely delivered it to you," Ginny said. "Besides, I got _my_ Valentine's gift from Dean last night."

Ron started choking. Hermione slapped him on the back mindlessly while she stared down at the box. She had a good mind to grab the box and make a run for the door. "What should I do?" she asked numbly.

Ginny sighed heavily. "Hello? _Open it_."

She looked from Ginny to Ron and then back to Ginny again, as if searching for confirmation that this was, indeed, happening. But there was no denying it. Someone had sent her an unexpected token. Her mind wandered to Zabini. Was it possible? He had been even more distant than usual the past few weeks, particularly after their little incident in the hall outside Potions. In fact, she had by now nearly abandoned the idea that he might want more than an art history lesson.

Hermione took a deep breath and tugged on the velvet ribbon. It was as white as freshly bleached cotton and as soft as cat hair. It fell to the sides of the box, leaving only one last motion between her and the box's contents. She cautiously lifted one corner of the box and peeked inside.

"Well?" Ginny pleaded, her voice almost a squeal.

"Well _what_?!"

"Well, unless there's something I don't know about between you and Fred or George, I doubt it's going to bite. Open it!"

Hermione held her breath and tossed the cover from the box. Ginny leaned in to get a better look.

"It's a quill!" Ginny exclaimed.

"I see that," Hermione replied.

"What does the card say?"

Hermione picked up the postcard, her stomach churning. It was a reproduction of Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_. She didn't even have to flip the postcard over, but she did anyway, her heartbeat ringing in her ears.

_Happy Valentine's, Granger._

A plain, simple message scrawled in tiny, untidy handwriting. Thankfully, his name was nowhere to be found on the postcard. He must have known she would be forced to open it at the breakfast table, and he was obviously intent on protecting their secret. She felt like every drop of blood in her body had gone straight to her pounding head.

"Let me see," Ginny commanded.

Hermione tossed Ginny the postcard and began examining the quill. It was a Quick-Notes Quill—the most expensive of all the models she had been considering. Furthermore, it had been engraved with one loopy little golden initial—the letter "R". She gasped when she saw it.

As Ginny was pondering the identity of Hermione's secret admirer (_"But who calls you Granger?"_), Ron seemed to come out of his trance. "R?" he said, very loudly. "Who is R?"

"Must be the manufacturer," Hermione answered plainly. "Either that, or this pen was meant to be delivered to _you_, Ronald."

"Not likely, _Granger_," Ginny replied. She hastily turned the postcard around to look at the art on the front. "You know, this bloke on the left kind of looks like—"

"I have to go," Hermione interrupted briskly. She knew exactly what Ginny was about to say, and frankly, she would have stood up on the table and started belly dancing before she let that name cross Ginny's lips. She grabbed the postcard, the box, and her bag and raced off.

It was the longest day of her life. Between Harry's futile attempts to hide his love bite, Ron's chocolate-munching interrogations, and double Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, she barely had time to think—much less to track down Zabini. She almost thought he was hiding from her, and she really needed to talk to him. There was no way under Jupiter she could possibly accept the gift. She was shocked, confused, and more than a little bit impressed. After all, she could not have picked out a better gift for herself. He knew her well, she realised. What a scary thought! But why on earth had he done it?

Determined to find out, she waited for him in a hallway that led off from the corridor to the Slytherin dormitory. It was almost time for dinner. He would be walking by at any minute, most likely alone. She waited and waited. Maybe he had gone directly to dinner after his last class, or maybe he was in the library. No, she had checked the library already, although she might have missed him.

She heard footsteps—a slow, heavy _clunk-clunk_ just down the corridor. She closed her eyes briefly, sincerely hoping that it wasn't Malfoy. But there were only one set of footsteps as far as she could tell, and Malfoy didn't go anywhere alone. It could have been anybody. Crikey, it might even be _Snape_. She held her breath. The footsteps got louder. The unknown person was getting closer. She held her breath as they turned the corner, her back resolutely pressed into the wall.

It was just Millicent Bulstrode. She didn't see Hermione. She exhaled softly, realising at once how silly she was acting. Furthermore, it occurred to her that she wasn't really too keen on the idea of discussing Zabini's gift with him in such close proximity to the Slytherin common room. She gave up. After all, she had three classes with him the following day. He would not be able to avoid her. Then again, she didn't think she could make it through the night without talking to him.

She waited until Millicent Bulstrode's footsteps completely disappeared, and then she started off up the staircase. She walked laboriously, her shoulders drooping. She didn't know why she was so disappointed. She just couldn't understand why he would do something so uncharacteristically thoughtful and then disappear. He was a Slytherin. If anything, she expected him to want something in return.

She turned a corner and glimpsed his shoulder-length black curls, and all of that was forgotten.

"Zabini!" she called after him. He stopped but did not turn. "Zabini, we need to talk."

He whipped around, those dark strands of hair in motion momentarily against his dark, emotionless face. As she drew closer, she noted that he looked cornered—like a trapped animal—and completely defenseless. She saw his eyes dart to the side, as though assessing an escape route. Still, she stalked forwards, her heartbeat betraying her mission to remain calm and logical. Unbelievable. She had never realised, until that very moment, how truly handsome he was. And not in a cute, boyish way, either, although he currently had a boyish air of timidity about him. She was almost surprised to find herself thinking it, but it was true. He looked like a grown man—so calm, so controlled.

Once she was standing only a few feet away from him, she lifted up the long, red box. "Why did you do this?" she asked.

Again, he shifted his eyes away from hers. "I don't know," he answered quietly. As controlled as he seemed to be, he also looked like he might try to bolt from the scene at any moment, and sure enough— "I have to go, Granger."

"Wait!" she exclaimed. Oh no, he didn't. Not yet. "I can't accept this. I've seen this quill in Scrivenshaft's. It costs over a hundred Galleons."

Ah, she couldn't know, could she? She could never understand that those hundred Galleons had been thrown angrily across his room at Christmas, and that he wanted nothing to do with that money. He had almost sent it to Noemi, just to spite Massimo. No, the proud, righteous little martyr would never comprehend how little he cared about that money. She just couldn't, and it made him nauseous.

"Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?" he spat. He didn't mean to sound so brutal. It just came out that way.

"What?!" she responded, rather loudly. "_I'm_ sorry. Let me explain. I'm just sitting at breakfast when a top-of-the-line Quick-Notes Quill gets plunked down in front of me out of nowhere with a Botticelli postcard. What do you think my friends had to say about that?"

"Tell me," he inquired simply.

"I-I don't know," she answered. "I didn't stick around long enough to—"

"Then what's the problem? I do have a bit of sense about me, Granger. I was smart enough not to sign the card, for that very reason."

"I..." She tried to figure out what she was hoping to accomplish with this conversation. Her mind set at last, she continued, "I can't accept this, Zabini."

He thought she must be very pleased with herself, acting so bloody noble about the situation. _So Gryffindor. _He almost hated her for it. Indeed, now he understood why Zabinis never thanked anyone. Gratitude was such a piteous sentiment, really. And he suddenly didn't know why he had done it at all. Getting into her knickers was really the least of his worried right now. He just wanted to turn around and run.

"I'm not going to take it back," he replied firmly, shrugging his shoulders. "If you don't want it, then just exchange it. Or give it to someone else."

"But...but..." She hated herself for blubbering so foolishly. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did overanalyze everything. It was obviously not the kind of Valentine's token she _thought_ it was. She had always imagined Valentine's Day gifts would be given with more...well, with less _apathy_, at least.

"But what?" he demanded. Now he appeared to be very interested in a portrait on a nearby wall.

"A Valentine's present?" she questioned him weakly.

He looked at her at last, though his focus seemed to be on her chin rather than her eyes. "Valentine's Day just gave me an excuse," he said. "You've been really..." He paused. She had been nice to him. Should he tell her that? Did he even understand it himself? It didn't matter. She hadn't done it out of the kindness of her bleeding Gryffindor heart. He had blackmailed her into helping him, and he couldn't forget that one little detail. He caught his breath at last and whispered, "I just wanted to thank you, okay?"

"Zabini," she whispered back, drawing closer to him. She was even more touched by his modesty than by the gift itself. How could she know that his modesty was a cover for guilt? "You didn't have to—"

"Forget about it," he responded with another shrug.

But she wasn't going to forget about it. That much was obvious. And she realised that he was backing away from her, ever-so-subtly. Backing away!—when all she wanted to do was embrace him. He looked terribly sad and nervous and uncertain, and that strange force of compassion once again welled up inside of her, crushing her baser thoughts, warming her from the inside out. He crossed his arms, shutting her out. More than anything, she wanted to break him down—to make him admit that he was feeling something beneath his callous exterior.

"Come here," she whispered, reaching her arms out to him.

He literally jumped away from her advance, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Rule number two, Granger," he reminded her. And now he had that commanding tone to his voice—that tone with which one could not argue.

He kept backing away, and she kept advancing, hands out and palms up like the proverbial white flag. "Zabini, it's Valentine's," she said softly. "Surely we can make an exception?"

"I'll see you later," he replied.

He left her standing there, arms open foolishly. She tucked the box away in her bag and released a long, meditative sigh.

* * *

_This is it_, Blaise thought to himself as he paced around the Room of Requirements a week later. This was going to be their last lesson. He had made up his mind. He simply could not take it anymore, and he had to do something about it. He felt guilty that he had ever blackmailed her in the first place. He felt angry that she had been so bloody nice about it. But most of all, he was just tired—sick and tired—of having his control tested at every turn. Sick and tired of fighting Malfoy every step of the way. He just wanted to _quit_, and then he never wanted to see Granger's cheeky little face again. 

It wasn't like a Zabini to call it quits. Massimo would have been very disappointed in him. Oh, well, that was just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of disappointments. It was right up there with the facts that he couldn't play Quidditch to save his life, that his eldest sister was better at running the family business, and that his cousin Nìccolo knew more about cars. It was right up there with the fact that he was every born at all. And _really_, what did Blaise care what Massimo thought of him? Massimo was just a greasy, two-timing, money-hungry sneak. But he was also his father.

Blaise had avoided Granger like a death curse in the past week since Valentine's Day. Stupid! He knew he had no business giving her such an extravagant gift, no matter _what_ his motives had been. And he had given her a quill, no less—something that she would most certainly use against him. He was already feeling the effects of the publication of Part I of her story. _Witch Weekly_ seemed to be quite popular among the fifth year Slytherin girls, and he could no longer sit and read in his common room without being ogled and giggled at. They were all apparently intrigued by the idea of having a tall, dark, curly-haired boy ravish them against a filing cabinet. Damn it, he now had _fans_. Nervous, giggling, shamelessly incoherent little fans, which gave Draco Malfoy one more reason to ridicule him. So much for blending in.

_This is a work of fiction_, said the disclaimer. Right. And he was the long-lost love-child of Voldemort and Minerva McGonagall. He couldn't wait to see what was next. He looked forward to it like one looks forward to a trip to the dentist. _Bloody Granger_.

"Let's make this quick," called her voice suddenly, and it was followed by a loud slam of the door. "I've got things to do."

"So sorry to inconvenience you," he spat back.

Should he tell her now? In the stream of light from the slide projector, he noticed that she had bags under her eyes. Obviously, she had not been sleeping well, either. Good. It gave him a very sick type of satisfaction. No, he wouldn't tell her now. He would wait until after their lesson to tell her. He just wanted thirty more minutes...

"Let's do it, then," she replied huffily, flopping into her chair. She didn't even have her bag with her tonight. "Michelangelo, please. I think we were almost finished with his sculpture, right?"

"I think so," Blaise muttered, taking his seat.

A nude man appeared before them, wine glass raised arrogantly as a nymph nibbled on grapes at his feet. "_Bacchus_," she said most unenthusiastically, "the god of wine. Here we see him drunk and stumbling around. Of course, he's not Biblical. I'm sure you know all about him already."

"I know a little bit," Blaise said. Like always, he knew more than he let on, just so he could hear her thoughts on the subject. Unfortunately, she did not really seem to be in the mood.

"He was half-mortal. His mother was a whiny little bint who demanded to see Zeus in all his glory and then spontaneously combusted at the sight of him. Bacchus was raised by nymphs and satyrs in the forest, and this link with nature caused the Greeks to associate him with the vine." She perked up slightly. "He also had a group of female followers—Bacchantes, they called themselves—who ran around getting drunk and ripping men apart, limb by limb, and drinking their blood."

"Your role models, Granger?" he sarcastically commented.

She sneered at him. "The men probably deserved it," she shot back bluntly. "Anyway, at the end of the 1400's, there was a resurgence of enthusiasm for classical sculpture, as we've discussed."

Now she sounded like Professor Binns, the sudden interest disappearing at once and leaving her droning listlessly.

"This _fad_, as I will call it, for lack of a better term, encouraged a lot of dodgy art deals. Our dear _Bacchus_ here was part of one of these deals. Shady art dealers would commission Greek-looking sculptures from artists like Michelangelo and then break off an arm or a finger and try to sell them at outrageous prices as original classics. The Cardinal who commissioned _Bacchus_ obviously had such a scheme in mind, but he refused to pay for it once it was completed."

"He got cold feet, eh?" Blaise commented with a tiny smile.

She nodded.

"It's funny how much the art world resembles the world of used cars," he mused. "You know, trying to pass something off as something it's not.... Of course, Massimo _rarely_ backs out of deal." (Neither did Blaise. Until tonight.)

She stared at him silently. Curiosity gleamed in her chocolate eyes, despite herself. Every time he talked about his family, Granger looked ravenous for details. There had to be a reason, she thought, why Blaise was so unlike his fellow Slytherins.

"I'll tell you something I've never told anyone," he said softly. After all, if he was going out, he might as well go out with a bang.

"What's that?" she asked, dismayed that her voice betrayed her abrupt interest.

"I'm a year older than everyone else in our year," he said plainly. "I'm seventeen."

She looked stunned. She didn't quite know what to say, so she said the first thing that came to her: "_You can Apparate?!_"

"Not yet," he replied with a chuckle. "I'm not too keen on the idea of disassembling my molecular structure, to be quite frank. But I _am_ old enough to legally drive, if I ever felt so compelled."

She laughed aloud at the thought of Zabini behind the wheel of an automobile, screaming Italian obscenities in traffic. She could just see him in a little Italian car about the size of a roller skate, his knees practically crammed into his chest.

He had made her laugh. A real, true, hearty laugh that rang out in the room like music. It made his heart cringe with disappointment over what he knew he had to do. He couldn't help it. She was just too close, and he just kept letting her get closer.

"So why are you a year behind?" she asked, quite rudely. "Late birthday?"

He glared at her. "I like to think of it as being a year _ahead_, Granger," he replied. "I had one very confusing and miserable year at Beauxbatons when I was eleven."

"You went to_ Beauxbatons_?!"

"Indeed. Thanks to the whining and pleading of my mother. She can be quite persuasive when it comes to dealing with Massimo. She was determined to have me trained in the French tradition. Unfortunately, I don't speak French. So after that first year, she bitterly agreed that I should probably be at Hogwarts."

"Merlin," she whispered. She couldn't believe he had told her something so private.

"Anyway," he went on, "perhaps we could keep that bit of information between the two of us. Needless to say, Malfoy would shoot through the roof in glee if he ever knew."

Now that he had broken the ice on which they had been treading for the past week, she felt more comfortable. And she still wanted answers about the quill. She dared to bring it up again. "Zabini, about Valentine's Day—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said firmly. The slight smile on his face had disappeared, and his brow was suddenly furrowed. "Just forget it, Granger. Massimo sent me that money for Christmas, and I really don't want anything to do with his slimy Galleons. All right?"

_All right_, she thought. At least he had finally given her a reason, though it seemed to be quite a flimsy excuse. She hoped, at least, that there was more to it. But she was probably deluding herself.

"Have you used it yet?" he inquired tentatively.

"W-what?" she said, his question interrupting her thoughts. "Oh, the quill. No, I haven't. I've just gotten so accustomed to writing in longhand. I don't know if—"

"Old habits die hard, eh?" He wondered if she was being honest.

"Right," she said, looking away. She hadn't even opened the box again since Valentine's Day. She had not wanted to think about him.

"Did you see your column?" he asked.

"Oh...yeah..." she responded. "I can't believe that people are actually reading that rubbish. And to think that I just started this thing on a whim!" She sighed heavily and looked up at _Bacchus_, all drunk and naked and smirkingly beautiful. She had to get through the lesson. She had to get away from Zabini.

Blaise wasn't too comfortable, either. He had to end this thing before he unwittingly divulged his life history to her. And if she continued to be so clueless—if she continued to not acknowledge his nervousness and confusion for what it was—he was simply going to have to let her know. Even if it meant touching her. _NO_. Then she would use him.

"Next slide, please," she said at last.

_Creation of Adam_. The image flashed upon the screen, and it was such a startling change from Bacchus and David and Judith and everyone else that she actually gasped. It was like they had skipped a slide. It didn't fit. A quiet tension filled the room, thick as molasses, as both of them struggled to make sense of the sudden change. Blaise did something he had never done in any of their lessons. He rose from his chair, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and he approached the screen.

Tension. Sweet, relentless, aching, endless tension. It was just a painting, but in that one seemingly innocent painting, Michelangelo had created the world's greatest tension. Two figures—God and Adam—_reaching_. Reaching, and not connecting. And they would stay that way forever. As long as that painting existed, those two fingers would _never touch_.

"This is one of Michelangelo's signature paintings," Hermione explained quietly. "It's part of the ceiling fresco in the Sistine Chapel. He lay on his back for four long years—"

"I don't want the details," Blaise interrupted. "Just tell me what it's about."

Hermione cleared her throat. "God has just created man in his own image, and He is reaching out to touch His creation."

"Why is Adam naked, and God is wearing a dress?" Blaise inquired. These small details bothered him immensely.

Hermione thought it was a pertinent question, and one she had secretly asked herself at one time. "It's a cloak, not a dress," she patiently corrected him. "I guess the Roman Catholics just couldn't bear the thought of God in the nude."

She watched breathlessly as Blaise drew even closer to the screen.

"That's what my father would look like," he stated simply, "if he had grey hair. Except I've never seen an expression like _that_ on Massimo's face."

"And look at Adam," she went on. "His hand lightly propped on his knee. He reaches out to his Father almost hesitantly. Do you see the earth and sky separating them? Michelangelo was trying to make a definite point here. How can we be so close to our Creator—to our _parents_—yet so far away by default?"

"I see it," Blaise replied. He saw it, all right, and it grabbed his pumping heart and twisted it around violently in his chest. "God is clothed in lilac and surrounded by angels. Adam is stuck in his green mountain of humanity."

"Yes!" she exclaimed. Trapped in a world of green and so hesitant to make contact.

"And that cherub," he said, running one long finger against the line of the angel's face. "That cherub seems to be the only one who knows what's going on. She tells us everything without saying a word. She smiles at us so pitifully, as though we should be ashamed."

Hermione swallowed deeply, stunned once again by Zabini's sharp intuition. He had this silent, screaming empathy about him, and she wasn't even sure he knew it.

"Look at their hands," he said.

"Yes," she answered. "God is so anxious to touch Adam's finger."

"And Adam is so reluctant to embrace his Father."

They were thinking as one now, she realised. Good art had a way of doing that to people. They were...they were..._connecting_. She got up from her chair and paced slowly to his side.

"Massimo hates me," he said suddenly.

"You keep saying that, but it's just not true. It _can't_ be true. No father can hate his own creation."

"Poor Massimo," Blaise muttered. "After four attempts and three daughters, I guess he was expecting more."

She was now standing beside him, marveling at how his navy blue eyes caught the light from the projector. He stared forward relentlessly, totally consumed by the tension on the screen. He seemed to be in another world. She wanted so badly to touch him. That strange compassion burst like wildfire inside of her, flooding her, blinding her.

"Zabini," she whispered, "I'm about to owe you five points."

She couldn't help it. She was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not stop her. He didn't even look at her as she reached one hand up—reaching, _reaching_—and then paused. The moment her fingertips grazed the side of his face, he jumped. He looked down at her, his face blank but his eyes wide and vibrant.

"Zabini," she whispered, lightly stroking his cheek.

And then it happened.

It was so quick—so immediate—that she didn't know how it happened. His arms flattened her against him. He clutched at her recklessly, as though he had never been hugged before. All pretenses of control came crashing down around them. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply, shuddering. He grabbed at her back and her shoulders, frantic to pull her closer. He shoved his fingers into her hair and clasped her head in his hands as though he was hanging on to life itself. Years and years of pent-up frustration manifested themselves in his fumbling hands, grasping wildly for an answer outside of himself.

She gasped, trying to steady herself. It was no use, so she returned his clutches instinctively. This wasn't what she had in mind, but...it was better! It was so lovely! One of her hands went to his head, his cool hair a striking contradiction to his warm breath. The other hand went to his shoulder, massaging it timidly.

Blaise had no idea what he was doing, and he didn't need to know. He didn't care. Surely he was crushing her. Yet he held onto her as though he had grasped a bare electrical wire—his muscles contracting under the current—unable to let go. His entire body shook with the force of it, until he was pressing his lips against the skin of her neck in order to steady himself, half-kissing and half-breathing his way up to her ear. And then he could not stop. He kissed his way down one side of her jaw and up the other. Frantic, forceful, open-mouthed kisses. He placed them on her temple, her forehead, her eyebrows, cherishing the contact of each one. The bridge of her nose. The soft apple of her cheek. Getting closer and closer.... Soon there would be nothing left to kiss except for....

He paused. Her lips were right there, gently parted. All he had to do was lean in those last few centimeters. Her eyes were closed. Her breaths were quick and shallow. A scarcely audible whimper broke from her throat. She waited....

_No. Not on the mouth. Then she owns me._

He suddenly dropped his hands and backed away from the embrace. Her eyes remained closed for a moment, and then she looked up. He was looking at her as though he had just walked in on his parents doing something that he didn't want to think about. His hands went to his pockets again, his last thread of self-control belied by the nervous gesture. She watched him, trembling.

"Sorry," he whispered. It didn't even occur to him that Zabinis did not apologise. This was it. If he was going to stop this thing, then he was going to have to do it right now. "Granger—"

She did not speak. All logic momentarily evaded her. He had just kissed her everywhere—everywhere but where it mattered. She knew, even before he continued, what was coming—

"—I don't think we should do this anymore." His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he hated himself for it. "My grades are much better. Really."

Silence. The rules were broken, and they knew it. There they stood, both of them helplessly gazing up at the signpost in each others' eyes. It was either the beginning or the end. It seemed to be a choice between crossing a river or climbing a mountain. If it was the beginning, then they had a steep climb ahead of them. If it was the end, then they would have to wade onward, fighting all the while against a ceaseless current.

He knew that one word out of her mouth—_any_ word—would change his mind. Any protest, any insult, any plea at all would be enough to keep him from giving up. As it was, she could say nothing.

"I'm sorry about everything," he announced at last. There was a quiver in his voice that he didn't recognise. "About your story, about these lessons, about the rules.... Stupid, really. You don't owe me _anything_."

He waited one final moment for an answer that did not come. Then, in a few quick paces, he was out the door and out of their bargain. She was completely unsure how she felt about that, so she just stood there numbly. The buzz of the slide projector seemed very loud, almost deafening. She stared straight ahead at a candle on the wall that now seemed overly bright and intrusive. Surely her feet were resting firmly on the floor, but she didn't know how or why.

After what seemed like hours, she reluctantly came to her senses and headed for the door. She flung it open impatiently, only to find herself staring straight into the folded arms of Draco Malfoy.

* * *

**Endnotes: **People, I am going to have to take a break from this fic for about a month. I have never in my whole life written like this, and I am exhausted. It's time to re-group and scribble some cookies. Maybe actually balance my checkbook. Sorry to leave you hanging. I'll be back soon...and, until then, your reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

_**Review Responses:**_

**Zaralya: **Thank you, darling! Evil cliffhanger? ME?! Surely you jest! Don't worry... I don't think Blaise will EVER admit that he saw her.

**Procella Nox-noctis:** Marry you, 'Cella? Somehow I think your intentions are not so honourable. (smirks) But here it is... rule number two has officially been broken, though not in the way you might have imagined. What did you think of the _Barberini Faun_? And how was your shower? (naughty smirk)

**Dixi:** Law school?! God, no WONDER you read fanfiction. I'm so happy about my timing! And as for the _Godfather _thing... There probably won't be any horses' heads or car bombs or guns taped behind toilets in this fic. Just a handful of quotes and Massimo as a Wizard version of Vito Corleone. And, of course, the constant theme to "keep your friends close and your enemies closer"! Happy belated birthday!

**Cate: **That's my job...to educate and entertain. Thanks for letting me know it's working!

**Inell: **_È sempre quei calmi_, no? Girl, you don't know this (because I am such a shameless lurker), but I absolutely ADORE your DraMionAise work. I mean, come on. There's only one thing that's better than sex with a Slytherin, and that's sex with TWO Slytherins at the same time.

**gehenna79:** Thank you! It means so much to me. And I promise you much more angst soon.

**scifichick774:** Yes, it's a constant struggle to seamlessly blend description and dialogue. Thank you for your encouragement!

**Kurayami Pansa: **Yeah, I just love Ron Weasley. He's so clueless, and he just screams comic relief. Glad I could make you laugh!

**Raincld: **Thank you! I am a HUGE fan of quietones. Which BZ/HG writer hooked you? I used to be a HP/HG shipper, but then I read a little story called _The Importance of Ancient Runes_, and the rest is history. Do you have work archived on quietones?

**trova:** OK, OK! They broke the rule! What do you think? Trust me—this is only the beginning.

**Demoness Mark:** Thanks! I'll have to check out Jael. But Judith is still my fave!

**Alenor:** Glad you enjoyed it! Welcome back!!

**La Rose Noire: **That was a very eloquent and humbling review. I am a firm believer that it's not the actual story that matters as much as HOW you tell it. Thank you so much!

**Pallas Athena1: **Nah, Hermione will never know that Blaise saw her "stress-relief." (By the way, I love that terminology!) And as for Draco, well...the more I write the little bastard, the more I like him, dammit. He might end up playing a bigger role than I had originally intended. And yes, Judith is a metaphor. Maybe. I wonder if I'm dropping enough hints. Oh, well. Thanks a million for the review! You have a deep understanding of what makes these characters tick. That's what makes you such a great writer, and I thank you for your thoughts!

**silverphoenix3:** Tasha, it is all your fault that I am hopelessly obsessed with Blaise Zabini. You are my hero (heroine, rather). Of course, if I would actually review half of the stuff I read, you might know that. But to have you call my fic "stunning"...I really don't know what to say. I mean, "thank you" just doesn't cut it. You get the picture.

**circumambientrose: **Thank you! Let me know what you think of this chapter!

**Louise:** And here we have more Cracking!Blaise. Enjoy, and thank you!!!

**hoofservant: **Oh, no. I am **tamlane**'s inflated ego. Stop, quick! (kisses **hoofservant**) I love you, sweetie.

**Donroth: ****_HA!_ **The funny thing is that I thought that fact was blatantly clear from page one. Yes, this fic is a self-parody to a certain extent. (And I use the word "parody" because I find my Hermione to be almost as ridiculous as I am.) Anyway, we could argue self-insertion and Mary-Sue-ism all day long. To quote _joan the english chick_, **"I'm Mary Sue, I'll bullshit till the cows come home if people let me."** With any luck, my bullshit is semi-interesting enough to allow me 8-10 more chapters of remorseless self-indulgence. If not, please do not hesitate to let me know.

**Khaila:** Thanks! I know, I just love this pairing.

**kePPiE:** I AGREE! All for more Blaise, raise your hand!!! (raises both hands)


	9. Trapped in a Box

**Disclaimer & Summary: **See previous chapters. Basically, it's not mine. And Hermione is a romance columnist. HG/BZ

**A/N: **This chapter is rather angsty. Lost of emotions, lots of developments. Sorry for the delay. My typist coughmecough has been very lazy. I only hope it was worth the wait. Oh, yeah, and this chapter is most lovingly dedicated to G-Dogg. You know who you are. Hope your interview went well! (Was there ever any doubt?)

* * *

_**Diagon Venus**_

**Chapter 9 — "Trapped in a Box"**

_Trapped in a box of enormous size  
__It distorts my vision, it closes my eyes  
__Attracts filthy flies and pollutes in the skies  
__It sucks up our lives and proliferates lies  
__Trapped in a box  
__--No Doubt_

This was impossible. How did he know where to find her? Surely Zabini had not leaked the details of their lessons. He hated Malfoy as much as she did—probably even more! When she looked up, however, at those steely grey eyes covered by long, loose locks of silver-blonde hair, she suddenly realised that she had made a big mistake. She had been careless in her interaction with Zabini. And suddenly, she understood why he had become so distraught and broken it off so abruptly. It was very dangerous for them to have contact with each other, and she could see that danger in the seething grey of Malfoy's eyes.

He just stood there, his arms folded, smirking down at her maliciously. She straightened up a bit and swallowed a whimper, but then she was being hauled back into the Room of Requirements by the heavy, strong hands of Crabbe and Goyle. One of them—and who really knew one from the other?—took her wand. It was pointless to try to fight. Their grip on her arms had assured her of that much.

"What the hell is this, Malfoy?" she yelled as the door closed and locked behind them. Her anger suddenly outweighed her fear, and she lashed out at Malfoy to punch him. He moved just in time, which caused her to stumble forward, nearly falling on her knees.

"He just wants to talk to you," said a terse, surly voice from behind her.

She whirled around to find Crabbe and Goyle smirking at her, one of them delicately running his thick fingers over the length of her wand.

"And how is he going to that?!" she screamed.

Her mind was racing wildly. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. She found nothing but a locked door and a very vivid projection of Michelangelo's signature painting. Her brain slipped into a state of near detachment.

Crabbe and Goyle did not bother answering, as Malfoy had "needed" a desk that suddenly appeared behind the armchairs, along with two short wooden stools. He perched himself casually on one of the stools and pulled out a length of parchment and what she now knew to be a Quick-Notes Quill. He sucked on the tip of the quill quite suggestively, his eyes never leaving hers. She was shoved towards him by one of his minions' rough hands, and she found herself nearly stumbling again.

And then the quill began to move across the parchment, in perfect rhythm, she assumed, with Malfoy's thoughts—

_Sit down, Granger._

It was unbelievable, this predicament in which she found herself. It was as though she was no longer in the room, no longer on Earth. She heard her voice bellow her response, but it sounded distant and foreign. "And if I don't?!" She knew she was yelling, but it sounded like a whisper. "You can't curse me! You can't even touch me! And those morons wouldn't know a proper spell if it knocked them on their arses!"

Crabbe and Goyle did not respond. They were, she realised, completely under Malfoy's command. He smirked up at her deviously, and the quill underlined the sentence that had been written.

_Sit down, Granger._

She just stood there trembling, despite herself. What did he want with her? What could he even do if she refused? She crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the floor, staring at him unblinkingly. He sighed at last, obviously exasperated by her obstinence, and turned to look at the screen. The light caught the side of his face, his perfectly straight blonde hair practically glowing and his jaw clenching and unclenching. Then he turned back to her with a very sinister smile on his lips, and the quill began to move again.

_I know all about you and Zabini. He's told me everything._

"I didn't realise there was anything to tell," she spat.

It was very odd to be having such a conversation. To an outsider—to Crabbe and Goyle—it must have been comparable to hearing someone talk over the phone or into a fireplace. They could only hear one side of the conversation, and the rest was between her and Malfoy. He sighed again, more angrily, and then the quill wrote boldly—

_SIT. DOWN._

She knew there was nothing else she could do, so she reluctantly submitted. She slid the stool far enough away from the desk to put an ample amount of distance between them, while still allowing her to read from the parchment. He watched as she sat—her knees pressed together, her fists balled in her lap.

_Good girl. Now I want you to tell me exactly what you've done to me._

"Nothing!" she roared. Her voice was so loud in comparison to his silence. Then, in a lower tone, as though realising the sheer volume of her voice, she added, "This might come as a shock to you, Malfoy, but my whole life does not revolve around _you_."

_Who did it, then?_

She almost told him. She almost blurted it out without a second thought. After all, this was all Zabini's fault, wasn't it? His "protection" of her was what had gotten her into the whole bloody situation to begin with. And besides, he was finished with her. Done. But deep down—and especially when she turned to look at Michelangelo on the screen in front of her—she couldn't do it. Zabini was fumbling for answers, just like her. And she knew that he, as well, was hopelessly trapped. She let out a long, exaggerated breath and turned back to Malfoy.

"I don't know," she responded plainly. She was suddenly as detached as Zabini himself. She suddenly understood him perfectly—if only for a fleeting moment—and she hated the grey eyes that glared at her so viciously. "It's not like you have a shortage of enemies, right?" she commented almost randomly. "I guess it just goes along with being an insufferable prat."

_You know who did this, Granger._

And now, she was free. She didn't care about anything. Her indifference—that apathy that she had learned from Zabini—guided her. She leaned forward, her knees falling apart and her arms resting between them, hands folded casually. "I do, do I?" she whispered. "Why don't you ask some of the people in your _own House_?"

He bit his bottom lip, drawing the teeth up over it brutally before the flesh snapped free, red and swollen. Oh, if he could only touch her! She had a good idea his hands would be around her neck, choking the life out of her. Watching her struggle for breath, knowing that the sight of his pointy face would be the last thing she ever saw.

_I knew it. It's Zabini, isn't it?_

"I don't know what you're talking about," she spat back. She had never known such apathy, such complete detachment and lack of fear.

_You see, Gryffindors are pathetic liars._

Silence. She wasn't going to budge, and he knew it. Now it was merely a matter of insults, of accusations—

_I assure you he's only using you._

Yes, that thought had definitely crossed her mind. That was her original mental reaction to Zabini's advances. But now...it just seemed like more. Or maybe that was what she _wanted_ to think.

_Virgin, aren't you?_

To hell with indifference. Wild, white-hot rage bubbled to her lips before she could stop it. "That's none of your business, ferret!" she bellowed.

He smirked more sleazily than ever, his fingers drumming the surface of the desk as his quill sped on—

_Just as I suspected. Zabini has a thing for virgins, you know. He likes them tight, I guess. He must be a horrible lay, though. He always gets dumped after the fact._

Her brain was simply going to explode. Or implode. Either way, she had no clue what to think or feel. It hit her head-on. _Of course._ Padma was engaged. Parvati's words rang out in her mind.... _"She was determined Armand would get her secondhand."_ But she couldn't delude herself, either. She was sure that Blaise—oops!—_Zabini_—had gotten what _he _wanted out of the encounter.

_I don't see a bed._

The words were simple enough, written mechanically by the quill as Malfoy glanced around the room.

_So what were the two of you doing in here, if you weren't shagging?_

"We were studying art," she replied without hestitation, gritting her teeth. How did he do that? How did he know exactly which buttons to push?

_And why were you "studying art"?_

"I'm sorry," she spouted sardonically, "but I fail to see why any of this should interest _you_. Unless you're a closet Micheangelo fan, of course, which I seriously doubt. I don't expect _you _to have any type of appreciation for the fine arts. After all, it's just a bunch of Muggle paintings, right? And you know, _Malfoy_, you're not really the cultured little Pureblood that you pretend to be."

His eyes burned with malice. Again, she felt like he might strangle her if he had the ability. He glanced at the screen and then quickly turned his eyes back to her. She thought she saw a tinge of crimson colour stain his pale cheeks.

_You'd be surprised. My father has quite a collection of fine art. Most of it was purchased from none other than Massimo Zabini himself. I assume you know all about Massimo._

Yes, she knew a lot. And she wanted to know more. He was not a Death Eater. He was a used car salesman, according to Zabini, and now she could add "fine art dealer" to the list. She had a feeling that Massimo was much more than anything Zabini had described to her. He was, perhaps, a "Don" of sorts, pulling the strings on the rest of the Wizarding world. Toying with people like they were puppets in his twisted game. And Massimo supposedly hated Blaise. Forget the "Zabini" shite. The more she heard, the more she learned, the more he became "Blaise" to her. Plain and simple. _Blaise._

_Yes, I know quite a bit about art, Granger. Shall I show you some of my personal favourites?_

She watched as his eyes turned to the screen, and she followed his gaze with trepidation yet interest. What—out of all of the art in the world—could possibly interest Malfoy? She received her answer all too quickly, the slide projector obeying Malfoy's sudden whim.

Picasso's _Guernica_. Black and white and grey despite the occasional splotches of putrid yellow. Arms and limbs and horse's heads. Feet and horned pigs. Eyes that did not make sense in relation to the faces that housed them. Broken daggers and scratchy hatch-marks. Fingers, candles, distortions. An overwhelming sense of chaos and violence.

Delacroix's _Death of Sardanapalus_. Pale bodies twisted upon red and brown and black. A woman lying lifeless at the feet of a man. Another woman, attacked from behind, held prisoner by a relentless hand forever, as she writhed against his control. The cacophony of faces and breasts and flesh and grasping hands.

Alexander Gardner's wet-plate photograph of _Carnage at Antietam_. Indistinguishable lifeless bodies strewn against a field in front of a cannon, still in the confines of their ragged uniforms. Death. Death in black and white. Bent knees, frozen forever in their state of helpless rigor mortis. And a white house in the background. A plain, empty white house, void of occupants, stripped of humanity.

Willem de Koonig's _Woman I_. A grotesque figure, carved out of stark brushstrokes. The eyes red, the teeth bared. The breasts accented loudly in a hue of greenish-grey. And hooves for feet...because all women were surely Satan incarnate, were they not? She was death personified. Death with bound breasts, rudely defying her bondage.

Hermione swallowed back a strangled gulp at the images in front of her. As they paused, she hesitantly looked back towards Malfoy, whose eyes were alight with hunger and malevolence. He watched her like a predator, feeding upon her disgusted reaction. And then the quill moved again—

_And now, Granger, my favourite of all._

Goya. _Saturn Devouring His Children_. That child's arm would forever be lodged in the god's gaping mouth. Forever—for eternity—as long as that painting existed, Saturn would be a helplessly bare, nude man, his fists hungrily clasping the body of his own flesh and blood, which he devoured with a mad, entranced look in his eyes. The pale of the skin. The red of the blood. The sheer desperate fight for self-preservation.

"Garbage!" she cried at last. She breathed as though each breath was her last, hating Malfoy with every nerve ending in her entire body. And then, lowering her voice, she went on, "I much prefer antiquity to modern art. But thank you for that grotesque journey through the mind of a Malfoy. It was quite..._enlightening_."

_Antiquity? How about this one, then?_

The Greek Hellenistic image flashed upon the screen against the steady, humming grind of the slide projector. It clicked into place so abruptly, so resolutely, that the sound of the moving cartridge echoed off the walls. Malfoy looked at the screen, his pale features glowing in the light of the creamy marble sculpture. With that image, Malfoy pinned her to the spot.

_Nymph and Satyr_, it was plainly called, for lack of a better title. The nymph had no head, and therefore no face. But her body was full and strong as she fought against the advances of her would-be assailant. Her arm bent back his head as he attempted to pull her down on top of him. A grimace distorted his face, and every muscle in his body was tensed as he fought to ravish her. His arms around her waist, pulling, struggling. He would forever battle against her pale skin, his legs spread along either side of her resisting hips. He would forever be unsatisfied, yet forever in control.

It was a warning, and Hermione knew it for what it was. She looked back at Malfoy, who sneered at her scathingly. He was sending her a message, a very clear image of his intentions. And how very cruel it was!—to have an image that had aroused her so intensely now used against her! How ruthless of him to use her newfound glory as a weapon against her! She hated him. She abhorred him almost to the point of biting her lip and spitting her own Muggle-born blood into his pale face.

_If you think a simple hex is going to stop me, then you don't know me very well._

She looked at him as though she had never seen him before, and now she understood. Now she comprehended Blaise's "protection" of her. He eyed her greedily, his smirk incomparable to the raw craving in his eyes. And now she understood Zabini's embrace—his attempt to hold onto her, to envelop her. She sat face-to-face with a dragon, helplessly subjected to the fire of his stare.

She wanted to.... She wanted to....

_Run. _And that was not like a Gryffindor.

So she simply shrugged. "Having fantasies about forcing yourself on Muggle-borns, are you?" she inquired.

_That's all you're good for._

She had had enough of all of it. She'd had enough of Blaise's insecurity, of Malfoy's blatant threats. She now knew what it must be like to be a Slytherin—always cautious, always unprotected, always doubtful. Trapped in a box of their own creation. And her compassion burned her up inside, threatening to overtake her. Because _surely_ they understood the flaw in their own reasoning. _Surely._

"This is insane," she whispered at last, standing up. "_You_ are insane. I'm leaving, even if I have to insure that Crabbe and Goyle will never reproduce in the process."

_Haven't figured it out yet, have you?_

Okay. So Malfoy was smart. He was too smart. Because if there was any way on earth to stop Hermione Granger, it was to question her problem-solving skills. And he knew it.

"Figured _what_ out?" she demanded, now looking down at him, her clenched fists on her hips.

_Don't tell me you haven't noticed anything unusual in the_ Daily Prophet _recently._

She cocked her head to the side and glared down at his simpering expression. A flicker of fear and shame ran through her veins, suffocating her raw anger. It was true. She had almost been completely ignoring the _Prophet_. Everything had just been so quiet. _Too_ quiet, she now realised. She should have been skimming through the trash and bias of the newspaper all along. Instead, she had been studying art and throwing herself headlong into her column. She should have known better, and she mentally reprimanded herself.

_Been too busy whispering sweet nothings into Zabini's ear, have you?_

Yes, she had been a fool. She had completely let herself go. But it had felt so good to lose control!—to bobble on the edge for once! It had been so liberating, and she had felt that she owed it to herself. Her whole school career had been wrapped up in Harry, while he had always stubbornly refused her advice. It wasn't that she had given up on him. No. He was one of her best friends. But the compassion she had felt for Harry had been willingly transferred to Zabini. To Blaise.

_Don't tell me. Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, is that it? Very Slytherin of you. I am almost impressed._

No! That wasn't it at all! But it definitely gave her something to think about. Someone was certainly getting used, and she hated that she had been drawn into this sick world of Slytherin mind games. She watched shakily as Malfoy pulled an issue of the _Daily Prophet_ from the inside pocket of his robes. He tossed it onto the desk and stared up at her as his quill darted out another sentence—

_I suggest you read that carefully from cover to cover._

"It's just rubbish," she replied in a withering voice. "I've given up on the _Prophet_. After all, the whole thing is controlled and funded by slimy, no-good ruffians like _your father_."

_Ah yes, my father._

Malfoy's face slipped into the wickedest grin yet. His eyes gleamed almost triumphantly. If nothing else, he had Hermione's unfaltering attention. She had been absorbed and blinded, and she was helplessly jerked back to reality by her worst enemy.

_I'm quite pleased to tell you that he has been discreetly released to St. Mungo's. Nasty little incident with a dementor. They say his mind is beyond repair._

That piece of information was belied, of course, by Malfoy's boastful smile. The closed ward of St. Mungo's was certainly preferable to Azkaban. He probably had a private room. And he could have visitors. Not to mention the fact that Lucius Malfoy was an excellent actor. He had spent his entire life doing just that. She felt a sick twinge of fear as the cold comprehension hit her. Things were not so quiet, after all, to anyone who was really paying attention. But how...?

_It won't be long, Mudblood. I'd watch your back, if I were you._

"You know what's going on," she whispered. It was almost a question, but not really. How much could Draco Malfoy possibly know?

_And now there's something that we both want. How perfectly convenient._

She was at her limit. She was angry, frightened, bitter, shocked, remorseful. She couldn't feel them all at once, so she shut down her emotions completely.

"Malfoy," she said quite blandly, "_go to hell_."

She turned to face Crabbe and Goyle. She was finished. And so was Malfoy, apparently—at least for tonight. She heard his cool, drawling voice at last, aimed at Crabbe and Goyle.

"Give her back her wand," he commanded. "Let her go."

She wasted no time. She snatched her wand back from whichever of the two morons was fondling it so mockingly. The door opened, and she walked through it in a daze, feeling the cool air of the corridor dry the beads of sweat that had gathered on her brow.

* * *

Over the next few days, Hermione fought to forget the entire encounter with Malfoy. She fought to forget every detail of that entire evening. In a space of about two hours, she had been.... Oh, damn it all to hell. She was going to have to make another list. It was the only way she could attempt to make sense of it all. 

In two fateful hours on a Monday night:

1. She had been completely disarmed by Zabini. He had confided in her more honestly than ever before.

2. She had broken rule number two. Hell, the "rules" were no longer existent at all, after an embrace like _that_.

3. She had almost been kissed.

4. She had, for all intents and purposes, been dumped. Yes, her services were no longer needed.

5. She had been forced into a locked room with her worst enemy and subjected to what, in her opinion, was the vilest possible torture. Mind games. Her own reasoning had been used against her.

Nope, it still made no sense. Her biggest problem, however, was the fact that she _couldn't_ forget about it. She couldn't bloody put it out of her mind because she was supposed to be _writing_ about it. Her work on the column was completely dependent upon the situation that had originated when she had taken her first tentative steps into the damn fiction section. It was all D. H. Lawrence's fault. She was quite prepared, at the moment, to burn all existing copies of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. Instead, she picked it up and began flipping through it. A word in Chapter VIII caught her eye, and she stopped to read.

"_Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions."_¹

The deadline for submission of Part III was 15 March, and it was now nearly the end of February. She had writer's block again—her "dead words become obscene"—and Draco Malfoy was entirely to blame. Malfoy made her wish that she had never laid eyes on Blaise...er, Zabini. But now she was stuck. She, the author, had fallen into a very distrubing love/hate relationship with her leading man—the leading man who now wanted nothing to do with her. She strongly considered pulling out all of her hair, overdosing on caffeine, and going into hiding somewhere on the third corridor for the remainder of the term.

In Part I, she had created the exposition. She presented her heroine, whom she quite uncreatively named "Hero" out of sheer laziness. (As a writer, one can always conveniently fall back on Mythology when pressed for names or ideas, right?) Hero was an overworked, underappreciated Ministry employee who—despite her complete lack of interest in the subject—had taken a job in the Department of Magical Creatures in order to subtly push legislation for elfish welfare. (Don't they say to write what one knows best?) Of course, Hero, a very practical and unromantic witch, received quite a shock one day when she went for a file on a certain hippogryff that had gone missing several years back. Instead of getting a file, she got a vivid image of Leo Valentino, an Unspeakable, doing things with a clerk in the file room that were _not_ work-related.

In Part II, Hero found herself struggling with the fact that she was surrounded by brainless idiots and helplessly intrigued by this dark, curly-haired Italian Unspeakable who seemed to be quite...good with his hands. She bumped into him one day in the corridor, and he managed to get ahold of some of her secret memos regarding several house-elves whom she was attempting to free on the basis of extreme cruelty from their masters. He used the memos in order to blackmail her. After all, freeing house-elves was neither common Wizarding practice nor a part of her job description. What he wanted in return was help with a project he had undertaken: cataloguing his personal library. He apparently had a strange fascination with Muggle literature and folklore, and Hero was known throughout the Ministry for her methodical organizational skills. As she began helping him—against her will and better judgement—she realised that this man was possessed by demons. His behaviour was erratic, at best, and downright incomprehensible and cruel, at worst. Yet he seemed to be begging her quietly for help beyond cataloguing his collection of tomes. There was something else going on, which brought Hermione to...

Part III. It was in Part III that Hermione had a burst of sudden inspriation. Leo Valentino was not possessed by demons at all. He was under the control of a Ministry official named "Droghan"—a black magician whose own personal house-elf was at the top of Hero's list for freedom on the basis of cruelty. Originally, Droghan had simply been out to destroy Leo, who refused to become a mindless slave to Droghan's idiotic quest for world domination. But now, Droghan was also determined to crush the rights of house-elves for good and to destroy Hero's career in one foul swoop. Yes, Droghan was the lazy type of bloke who preferred to kill two (or three, or four) pixies with one spell. He was pure evil, and he was rich enough to get by with it.

Would Leo ever fight back? Would Hero's reputation be irreparably damaged? Would the house-elves ever be free? The biggest question of all was yet to come.... _Would her readers really care?_

It didn't matter at the moment—not to Hermione. Hero and Leo. Hermione and Blaise. It was all over, and Part III would either have to go on hold or never be written at all. If it was the latter, she would not get paid for what she had already written, but she wasn't doing it for the money. Now it was like a vendetta. If she didn't continue with it, then someone else _would_. Someone with half her wit, little appreciation for the rights of house-elves, and absolutely no knowledge of the situation that had inspired the whole idea. This person would simply pick up where she left off, using _her penname_. After all, _Witch Weekly _certainly _was_ out to make money. And there were probably some authors out there who would just _love_ to turn Hero into a swooning, lovesick moron.

It didn't matter. Over the next week, it was like Hermione was waking up from a long, very realistic dream. The more she willed Blaise out of her mind, the more the rest of the world slowly came back into focus. She suddenly found that she barely recognised her best friends. She had been trapped in a box, so large and consumptive that it distorted her entire perception of the world around her. As the walls came crashing down at last, she was appalled to find how much the world around her had changed. She was also more than a little hurt to find out that it had, indeed, gone on without any help from her.

Therefore, when Ron sat down next to her one evening in the common room, she did something unusual. She closed her Arithmancy text, put down her quill, and gave him a look that could only be described as a plea for sanity.

"How are you, Ron?" she asked, really meaning it.

"How are _you_?" he asked back.

For a moment, they said nothing. They just sat there looking at each other. She wasn't the only one with secrets. She could see it in his eyes, in the anguished set of his jaw. Ronald Weasley looked scared. His red brow was furrowed thoughtfully, and he released a long, heavy breath.

"It's Harry," he said at last, very softly. He looked around the room cautiously, as though insuring no one was eavesdropping. When he didn't go on, Hermione shifted a bit uncomfortably.

"Where is Harry now?" she inquired quietly.

"At the owlery...or so he _says_."

Hermione squinted her eyes and watched Ron closely. He was trying to tell her something. She knew what it was, and she didn't want to talk about it anymore than he did. Finally, she took a deep breath and said very quickly, "There's something going on between him and Priscilla Pernicia, isn't there?"

Ron's ears glowed red, but his stare was unflinching. "Yeah," he muttered. "I think there is."

Then they both started fidgeting. Neither knew what to think about such a thing, much less what to _say_. Hermione's eyes darted around the room before they finally settled once more on Ron. "That's wrong, you know," she whispered.

"Of course it's wrong!" Ron whispered back harshly. "She's a professor! Then again, it's Harry's...love life?...we're talking about. Is it even any of our business?"

More tense silence. But they _had _to talk about it.

"What do you think her motives are?" Hermione asked. She was now picking at one of her fingernails and clearly avoiding Ron's eyes.

Ron snickered. "Who knows? There's that whole sex-god thing that comes along with being the Boy Wonder, isn't there?" Ron looked almost jealous, but his concern was still evident. He was being so quiet, so careful in his selection of words, Hermione thought. And he looked so utterly alone.

"You know what we have to do," Hermione whispered at last.

Ron grinded his teeth quite noticeably. Yes, he knew what they _should_ do. It was always Hermione's first suggestion, and it was always Ron who tried to talk her out of it. "No," he replied firmly after a long pause. "I _really_ don't want to do that, Hermione."

"Yeah, something tells me it wouldn't be the most..._comfortable_ of conversations, would it?"

"Who should we tell?"

"McGonagall, I guess?"

Ron buried his head in his hands and shook it slowly from side to side. "Lovely," he mumbled sarcastically. "Yes, I can just imagine _that_ conversation." He looked up and leaned in towards Hermione, mimicking his idea of said interview. "Good evening, Professor. Mind if I have one of your lovely gingersnaps? That Transfiguration class the other day was really exciting. By the way, Harry is shagging the new Divination professor. Thought you should know."

All right, so it was something neither one of them had ever had to deal with before. It was new territory, and it wasn't exactly a picnic to sit there and think about it. They didn't _want _to think about it. It was...really gross and icky and strange, and it was...well, it was _Harry_, for pity's sake. They didn't want to think about Harry shagging _anyone_. It was like thinking about one's parents making love. It was just...unthinkable, really. Even if they both knew he was bound to shag someone someday. They certainly hoped they never heard about it.

The look on Ron's face pled for answers that neither one of them had. Hermione's bum was practically raw from shifting about in her seat.

"Do you think he's in danger?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"_Well_," Ron asserted, "he's not exactly himself nowadays, is he?"

"But, she couldn't be connected to Vold—"

"Who knows?" Ron interrupted, still not wanting to hear the name. "It's a perfect weapon, isn't it?"

Hermione had to hand it to him. In six years, she had never heard such insight from Ron Weasley. "You're right," she uttered quietly. "I mean, he's an orphan. He's never known any kind of...er, tactile interaction, so to speak." Ron grimaced. "And he's still grieving over Sir-Snuffles, understandably. And he _is_ sixteen years old, so he—"

"Yeah," Ron said, cutting her off. He blushed furiously.

"Right," Hermione added. What was it about sex that reduced people to one-word sentiments? She felt her own cheeks burning as well. "So...we need to go to McGonagall, then?"

Ron sat back and sighed. "Why don't we just give it a few weeks? Maybe he'll snap out of it. Or get bored with it or something."

Hermione had to admit that she was _all for_ putting it off. To change the subject, she pulled out the issue of the _Daily Prophet_ that Malfoy had given to her. "Listen, Ron," she said softly, "I've been meaning to tell you about this, but I didn't wan't you to burst a blood vessel. I had a slight run-in with Malfoy the other night."

"_What?!_" he yelled suddenly. A few of their surrounding House mates jumped, and he lowered his voice. "When?"

"Just...the other night." She couldn't go into the details, of course, and she didn't really want to.

"What happened?" Ron pleaded. She didn't have time to answer before he was mumbling, "I swear, I will hex him to doomsday. If he doesn't stop pushing us, Hermione, I'm going to have to hurt him. Or at least insure that he never reproduces."

"Just listen. He gave me this issue of the _Prophet_, and he told me to read it cover-to-cover, which I've done. I've been over every page, and I can't find anything. But..."

"But what? I _hate _it when you don't finish sentences!"

"I don't know. It's almost like he was warning me or something, like he wants me to know what's going on. But I can't find anything in there even remotely related to Death Eaters or...well, you know. There's not even anything about Harry in there, and they always talk about Harry."

"It's just too quiet," Ron commented.

"And he told me—" She paused and leaned closer to Ron, her voice the softest yet. "He told me that his father has been released to St. Mungo's after a dementor attack."

"Bullocks!" Ron exclaimed. "This is crazy. Is there anything in there about Lucius Malfoy?"

"No, I'm _telling_ you. I've been over every word. I can't even find anything that would be like code. Ron, why don't you take this with you? Flip through it when you have a chance. See if you can find anything unusual."

"All right," he conceded. He looked really tired, more so than she'd ever seen him look before. He picked up the paper. "I guess I'll go on to bed. I'm really worn out from Quidditch lately."

"It was a pity about the Ravenclaw match," Hermione sympathised, patting him on the arm.

"Yeah, disappointing, that." He wiggled his eyebrows. "But _I _was pretty good, wasn't I?"

Hermione smiled. "Weasley is our King," she sang softly. "And I almost thought Gryffindor had them when Ginny broke that Chaser's arm. I mean, it looked like he was the one scoring all the points."

Ron grinned proudly. "Who knew Ginny was such a ruthless little freak?"

_Oh, if he only knew,_ Hermione thought with a chuckle.

He got up to leave but suddenly thought better of it. "Hermione," he inquired more seriously, "who sent you that quill? Did you ever find out?"

Hermione glanced away. "Yeah," she answered quietly, "I found out."

There was a long pause in which Ron waited for an answer and Hermione debated giving it to him.

"And?"

"And what?" she snapped defensively.

"Who was it?"

She fiddled nervously with the corner of her Arithmancy text and prepared herself for the coming onslaught.

"It wasn't that Zamboni bloke, was it?" Ron asked, his ears beginning to glow again.

She had to bury her head in her hands to keep from laughing out loud.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's so funny?"

"Ron," she panted over her laughter, "a Zamboni is a Muggle machine that's used to re-freeze and re-surface ice at hockey games."

"Hockey? What the bloody hell is hockey?" Then his face turned stern. "Wait a minute, you're avoiding the question."

"It's _Zabini_," she replied reluctantly. "And it was just a token of his appreciation. I've been tutoring him."

"Tutoring him?!" Ron nearly shouted. "You've been tutoring a bloody _Slytherin_? You told me it was a third-year Gryffindor!"

"And now you know _why_!" Their voices were steadily getting louder, post-Yule-Ball style.

"What is it?" Ron spat. "Does he want the scoop on Harry?"

"No, Ron! Calm down. He's not like that. Merlin, I was helping him with _Muggle Studies_ of all things."

"A Slytherin taking Muggle Studies? What's that all about? Trying to get to know his enemies in an attempt to better destroy them?"

"Look!" she shouted. She was breathing heavily by now, her face screwed up despite her efforts to remain calm and rational. "It's over now. His grades got better, he sent me a quill as payment for my tutoring efforts, and the whole thing is completely finished. _The end._"

Ron was practically fuming, and it was obvious that he didn't quite know _what_ to say. Hermione was finished with the conversation. It only amplified her own feelings of mistrust and betrayal.

"Please, Ron," she said with a sigh. "I don't want to talk about it. Besides, there's nothing to talk about." She just wasn't in the mood for a shouting match, not when her own mind was so hopelessly trapped up in the box of her doubts. She slung her pile of books under her arm and stood up abruptly. "I'm going to bed, too," she announced.

"Fine!" he spat back.

"Good night," she said, turning to go. "And let me know what you think of that newspaper."

"Fine," he repeated as she paced away.

She figured she might as well attempt to write something.

* * *

Trapped in a box. The worst part of it was the fact thatBlaise had built the box himself, and now he was stuck. No windows. No doors. Yet everywhere—on every inch of this monstrous, empty box—he could hear people knocking, fighting to bust their way in. Malfoy. Granger. Fifth-year Slytherin girls. And now Lavender Brown seemed to have a thing for him. She had been ogling him shamelessly in the library for the past two weeks. He could just imagine the line of gossip. Padma to Parvati. Parvati to Lavender. _Lavender to...?_

He hated himself with a passion that he didn't know he possessed. This hatred, this bitter self-loathing, nearly strangled him in his fitful sleep. He would wake up sweating and paralyzed, until he wanted nothing more than to bash his skull in on his bedpost. He hated everyone else, too. It was hatred that was so intense that it could only originate from having a small taste of what might be love. Indifference had been so sweet, so comforting. He missed it.

Blaise sat in his secluded corner of the library, fuming. He stared down at a reproduction of Michelangelo's _Creation of Adam_. In the past few weeks, he had done this for hours. He would simply sit and gaze through unfocused eyes at those two fingers that would never touch. He wanted to slam that book shut. He wanted to rip out that page and crumple it up. He wanted to tear it into a thousand pieces and blast the shreds of that image into obvlivion.

He thought about Granger's touch—her fingers lightly grazing his cheek—and he shuddered uncontrollably. He thought of the embrace—how he could not seem to get her close enough to him, no matter how firmly he grabbed or clutched or squeezed her. He thought of the compassion welling up in her brown eyes, the unmistakable feeling in her gentle fingers. He hated himself. He hated everyone but _her_. He felt cruel and undeserving, and the strange thing was that the more he detested himself, the more cruel he became to others. Everyone but _her_. He couldn't even face _her_.

Something was going on with Malfoy, as well, but Blaise didn't care. The one time Malfoy attempted to confront him,Blaise slammed him against the wall of the dormitory, aimed his wand at the pale boy's throat, and _begged_ him to give him a reason. He didn't care _what_ kind of dirt Malfoy thought he could dig up on him. All he wanted was an excuse to blast the ferret into the next millenium. Malfoy was so shocked by Blaise's sudden outburst that he relented, putting as much space between them as possible since the occurence. But it didn't stop the sneering, and it certainly didn't stop Malfoy from making crude comments in a voice that clearly showed he wanted Blaise to overhear.

It finally happened on one night in early March. Lavender finally got the courage up to approach him. He looked up to find her sitting down across from him at _his_ table. She set down her books, and he noticed the current issue of _Witch Weekly_ lodged between two of them. He cringed at the thought of Rowena Ravvish. Lavender's hair was pinned up in barettes, and she was wearing lipstick in a pale pink hue. Blaise thought she looked ridiculous.

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

She leaned over her pile of books and grinned slightly, her bubble-gum-pink lips nearly pouting. "You," she said plainly. Gryffindor bravery. It was sickening.

"You don't even know me," he replied.

"I'd like to." She licked her pink lips and twisted a lock of her hair in her fingers.

She stared at him as though she wanted to devour him, and as much as he hated it, it triggered something carnal, something primitive, inside him. Not desire. It was more like hunger. Not even hunger. It was the same feeling a cat must have when it paws a mouse to a slow, torturous death for the fun of it. Sport killing. He wanted to make her regret ever approaching him in the first place. Cold, wild, sadistic thoughts crept up inside him before he could stop them. He buried his head in his hands, desperate to steady his racing mind.

Then he felt her hand on his arm. The touch was simple but intrusive, and he snapped. He shoved her hand away forcefully and glared at her. "Why?" he demanded, rather loudly. "Why do you want to know me?"

He grabbed the corner of _Witch Weekly_ and jerked it out from between her books, flashing it in front of her face before tossing down on the table. "Because of _this_, Miss Brown? Don't tell me you've been reading this garbage. Or is it because of your little conversations in your dormitory? Because I know you talk. That's all you do, isn't it? Talk!"

She looked stunned, and it only urged him on. "But I bet you didn't hear _all_ the gory little details, did you? Did you hear how Padma called me a toy? _A toy!_ How she said she was just using me? How do you think that makes a person feel? Or maybe you think I deserved it, do you? Maybe you think that I was using _her_. And maybe I was. But she had no right, and you have no right. You have no right at all to be so presumptuous, do you?"

Her mouth was hanging open. Now that he was on a roll, he couldn't stop. "Why are you looking at me like that? Gaping at me like I'm some kind of freak. Do you know how pathetic you look in your pink lipstick? What, did you not expect me to say anything? Or maybe, because I never do say anything, you thought I had no brain. Is that it? Blaise Zabini, mindless, thoughtless shagging machine! And you want to know me. Right. I'm sure you want to know _all about_ me, don't you?"

He slammed the book shut and stood up, towering over her, his dark blue eyes flashing vehemently. "You don't even _like_ me," he spat brutally. "And I certainly don't like _you_. Not one bit."

She was red in the face and still looking extremely shocked. She cleared her throat suddenly and whispered, "You don't like _anyone_, do you?"

How dare she? He braced himself on the table and leaned down very close to her. "You're wrong," he said simply. "I _do_ like someone. A lot. And you don't even compare to _her_."

He raced for the double doors, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Lightning coursing through his veins. It was as though he had just admitted that fact to himself for the first time. He liked her. Very, very much. And he had to find her. He had to tell her before his heart spontaneously combusted. His jog to the Room of Requirements was a complete blur. He got there before he knew it and began pacing. He knew she was in there. It was after eight o'clock on Monday night, and she still went there on Mondays. He knew that for a fact because he had been watching her for the past two weeks. He had wanted to follow her in there, to sit and discuss art with her like always. He had been too ashamed until this very moment.

He paced in front of the blank stretch of wall, his heart thudding with nervousness and joy. _I need her,_ he thought. _I need Granger, if she's in there. I need to talk to her...er, unless she's...er, enjoying Hellenistic art. If that's the case, I'll wait. But I need her. If she's in there running that slide projector, I need her. I. Need. Her._

The door presented itself, but it was locked. He pulled out his wand and whispered an _Alohamora_. This was it. All he had to do was turn that knob, and he did. He peeked into the candlelit room and found the Minoan "Snake Goddess" on the screen. He could see Granger's legs sticking out in front of one of the chairs, the only clue that she was there. His heart leapt. He gently shut the door behind him and crept towards her. He could see his long shadow on the adjacent wall, but he hoped she wouldn't notice. He inched his way closer and closer. He had to tell her, and he was not going to let her get away.

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

And then he was on his back, immobilised. If he had been able to move at all, he would have smiled. He would have laughed. He should have known better than to try to sneak up on the smartest witch in their year.

She approached him, wand still poised at the ready, and then she knelt down to look at him. "Zabini?!" she exclaimed. "What are you.... How did you...."

She was unable to finish a sentence. He just lay there frozen, looking up at her, adoring her. The expression on her face was a mixture of shock, amusement, and quite a bit of anger. To him, at that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. If he ever regained control of his limbs, he would wrap his hands around that pale face of hers and kiss her lips as though they were made of nectar.

Unfortunately, she did not seem to be thinking along the same lines. The shock and amusement quickly vanished from her face, leaving only the anger behind. She stood up and pocked her wand. Then she crossed her arms and scowled down at him, waiting for the hex to run its course. She tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. Maybe, he considered, he should just keep lying there even after the spell wore off. It was either that or face the wrath of Hermione Granger, and she suddenly did not appear to be in a very good mood. Again, he wanted to laugh. He liked everything about her—from her sharp intelligence and her quick reflexes, to her bossy stance and her self-righteous pride. He absolutely adored her.

He felt the numbness slowly leave him, and words were tumbling from his lips before he could stop them— "Bloody hell, Granger!" he gasped. "Not a bit twitchy, are you?"

She exhaled loudly. "The room's all yours, Zabini," she spat. "I'm finished for tonight."

But _he_ was not finished with _her_. He slowly sat up and watched her go for her bag. She packed it furiously, frantically. He just couldn't get his body to move fast enough. He worked himself into a crouching position, very pleased when he felt some circulation come back to his legs. She was crossing in front of him, headed for the door. He had to stop her.

"_WAIT!_" he thundered. He didn't know he could speak so loudly. She turned to face him, and odd assortment of books and papers crammed into her bag. Her hair was caught in the strap, and even in the candlelight he could see the flush on her cheeks.

"I'm leaving now," she announced softly.

But she didn't move, and it gave him just enough time to clumsily stumble over to her. His knees nearly gave out on him, and he fell on top of her, both of them landing with a thud against the wall. He used both the wall and her to brace himself. He was hanging onto her, probably painfully—

"Ouch!" she screamed.

"I'm sorry, Granger," he gasped. He tried to shift his weight more towards the wall. She just stood there beneath him, her back against the wall. Instead of fighting him, her hand went under his arm to help support him. "That was a really good _Petrificus_ spell," he panted. "I'm impressed."

"What do you _want_?!" she demanded impatiently.

"I want...to talk." It took all his strength to stand upright. "I have to talk to you."

"Oh, here comes a steaming load of shite!" she yelled. He couldn't help but notice how pretty she was when she was angry. "And who are you today? The sweet but oddly insecure Zabini? Or the evil, blackmailing, completely unfeeling bastard Zabini?"

He wanted to laugh, but it just came out as a sigh.

"I think you need to go see Madame Pomfrey," she asserted. "Your multiple personalities are quite dizzying, you know. Honestly, Zabini, I can't keep up with them. And I pride myself on being quite percept—_MMPHHHHH_!"

His strength returned just in time, and he covered her mouth with his own. One arm went around her waist, steadying himself as much as her. The other hand went to her head, grasping it firmly. He was not going to let go. Her mouth was a hard wall—a barrier he couldn't break through—but he just kept trying. He massaged her lips with his own, commanding her to kiss him back. He was not taking no for an answer, and he was certainly not going to allow her to protest verbally.

And then—in a split second that was so beautifully triumphant that he almost wanted to stop and memorise it—she went all open to him. Her mouth, her grasping hands, her entire body went as rushingly open as a floodgate. She spilled forth all of her compassion boldly, warmly, without any restraint at all. He basked in it, pulling her even closer to him. She threaded her fingers into his hair, her mouth fighting with his. Soft, mumbled groans filled the air as they sought to devour each other. Her lips worked rhythmically against his. He could feel her hearbeat in her temples. He was breaking—ever-so-sweetly—submitting and yet taking at the same time. Taking her with no apologies, no inhibitions, no regrets.

And once the initial joy and astonishment had passed, his desire hit him full force. He had never known such desire, such mad craving. So _this_ was what it felt like. He wanted to wrap her body all around him, to bury himself against her, inside her. She was so open, and she gave of herself so freely. With a heavy, mindless groan, he shifted his hips and forced his knee between her legs. She made an odd sound—almost like a squeak—and it rocketed him to an even higher level of arousal. His hands traveled firmly to her hips and lifted her, causing her to rest on his trembling thigh. His knee bit into the wall, and he felt every muscle in his body begin to tighten, stretching like a slingshot. She bit at his lower lip, and he gasped, jerking her hips even closer to his. _Oh, yes._ She began moving against his leg tentatively. Her heat was right there pressing down on him—_burning him_—simultaneously stretching him further and liberating him. Her lips left his at last as she threw her head back, panting for air.

"Merlin, Granger," he mumbled. He just couldn't stop. He seized the soft skin of her neck between his lips, gently sucking and then greedily kissing his way down to her collarbone. Ah!—he didn't ever want it to end! He had never been so hungry and so sated, all at the same time! One of his hands began caressing its way up her abdomen. She whimpered as his fingers stretched out to graze the curve of her breast, and then—

"Zabini!" she exclaimed. "Put me down! Put me down!"

He really did _not_ want to do that, but he had to obey. He lowered her gently, his face resting in the crook of her neck. They were both breathing heavily, gasping for air. The tension slowly began to ease as she ran her fingers through his hair. He waited silently. He didn't want to hear her speak. He just wanted to stay right there forever, his face buried against her skin. All of his self-loathing was gone. _He was free._

"Granger," he whispered at last, "I really, _really_ like you. More than you know. And much more than I've let on."

She continued to stroke his hair and massage his scalp placatingly. He felt relieved to find that she, too, was shivering from the contact. "Malfoy knows," she whispered back. "And he made it very clear that he has his own plans."

His head snapped up, the real world slamming back into sudden, harsh focus. "What?" he demanded tersely. He searched her diverted eyes for an explanation.

"It happened the other night, after you left," she replied softly. "He made me sit through an interrogation on parchment."

Blaise seethed with fury. "Little bastard just doesn't give up, does he?" Blaise snarled. His hands were still on her hips, and the grip there became possessive. "What did he want?"

Hermione looked at him at last with a clearly mocking expression on her face. "He wants to know what I've done to him, of course."

Blaise released her and ran one hand through his hair nervously. "Maybe that binding wasn't such a good idea. I really didn't think he'd have the balls to actually confront you."

"Zabini," she whispered meekly, "he said..."

"What?" he snapped. "What did he say?"

"That you were just using me," she muttered, looking down at the floor.

Blaise felt a sharp sting of guilt. Yes, that _had_ been his original plan. Damn Granger. Why couldn't she just be the one-sided snotty brat he'd been able to carelessly ignore for so long? Why did she have to be so _human_?

"And after tonight," she went on, "after _this_... Well, now I don't know what to think."

He glanced at her tentatively. "You hate me, don't you?" he mumbled.

"Hate you?" she repeated. "Zabini, do you have any idea how hard it is to hate you?"

He couldn't figure out whether or not that was supposed to be a compliment. He sighed and fell back against the wall beside her, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ceiling. "I just wanted to get to know you, Granger," he admitted softly, as much to himself as to her. "Of course, I realise now that swiping your story and blackmailing you with it was probably not the best way to go about it."

"You think?" she answered with a slight chuckle.

"It's not like I've ever done this before," he shot back defensively. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," she snickered. "Send me a love note? Come up to me in the library and begin quoting _Hogwarts, A History_?"

He looked down at her with an amused sort of disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"That _is_ one of my fantasies," she replied with a giggle. "Okay, so I might be a little imbalanced. But please tell me you've at least read it."

"Three times," he responded with a wink. It was a lie, of course. He had only read it twice.

"Or you know," she went on, grinning, "you could have just been totally normal and asked me out."

"You mean...on a date?" he asked with a gulp. He had never been on a date before.

"That's the commonly accepted term, I believe."

He turned to face her, leaning on his shoulder, and she did the same. "You would have said no," he stated plainly.

"You're right. I probably would have."

"_Would_ have?" he commented, shifting a bit closer to her. "Does that mean you feel differently now?"

"Well, I _did_ just snog you senseless."

"I thought _I_ snogged _you_."

"Okay, maybe it was a little bit of both."

"So..." He leaned a little bit closer. "What do you say, then?"

"Er..." she fumbled, "...it was... nice, I guess?"

He laughed outright—one quick, heavy spurt of laughter that spilled from his lungs uncontrollably. She looked completely taken back. "Not about the snogging," he said. "Although it _was_ nice. I meant, however, what do you say about the date?"

"Oh..._that_," she replied, blushing. Merlin, she looked cute when she was flustered. "You mean a _real_ date?"

"Yeah," he whispered, having no idea what a real date consisted of. But he had a good idea it would include some more snogging, and he suddenly was not so disgusted by the idea of kissing on the mouth. In fact, he was all for it.

"A real date," she repeated, clearing up the whole matter for him, "where we go out to dinner, and you pay for everything, and I'm guaranteed a good night kiss?"

"Or we could just skip the dinner part, if you like," he suggested. Damn. This dating thing didn't sound half bad. He had to admit, though, that the female seemed to get the better end of the deal. Not that he minded paying for everything. It was just Massimo's money, after all.

She chuckled but then gasped abruptly as he leaned even closer still, his lips only inches from hers. "Now, Zabini," she whispered, "I don't want to be cheated out of anything."

"Ohhh," he purred, "you won't be."

He closed the last bit of space between them and brushed his lips softly against hers. Then he pulled back and studied her carefully. For once, she looked up at him as though he was more than a Slytherin, more than Massimo Zabini's son, more than just the last name on every list. He almost loved her for it.

* * *

**This chapter is now officially over.**

**¹Direct quote **from D.H. Lawrence's _Lady Chatterley's Lover._

And now I am going to have a little fun. If this doesn't interest you, please feel free to skip over it. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just **go directly **to the little button in the bottom left-hand corner that says **SUBMIT REVIEW**. Thank you. _Ti amo_.

* * *

**Author: **Holy freakin' cow, people! You have truly made my millenium. I never, in my wettest Zabini dreams, imagined that I would get over 100 reviews for a silly little fic about romance-writing and artwork. I mean, I am utterly— 

_(knock, knock)_

**Author: **Oh no. So it's _you_, Malfoy.  
**Draco: **Who were you expecting? The great squid?  
**Author: **You are interrupting me, Malfoy. I was just about to thank all these nice people who have reviewed me.  
**Draco: **Yeah, they obviously have no taste.  
**Author: **What? My fic isn't _that_ bad.  
**Draco: **It's OK, I guess. For a _Blaise Zabini _fic.  
**Author: **Jealous much, Malfoy?  
**Draco: **Please. As though that tongueless Italian pretty-boy compares to _me_.  
**Author: **Oh, I'll get to _you_, my fair little ferret. Make yourself comfortable. I've got some shout-outs to do.

_(Author clears throat)_

_The following reviewer has a very, very special place in my heart:  
_**Dixi** (molt'amore and french fries)

_These reviewers are true kindred spirits:  
_**hoofservant, Zaralya, Procella Nox-noctis, dora mc allister, Pallas Athena1**

_The following reviewer gets the "Brutally Honest" award:  
_**JeanB** (And fasten your seatbelt, darling. It's gonna be a bumpy ride!)

_These reviewers get the "Stamina" award for being with me so long:  
_**Alenor, Kurayami Pansa, trova**

_The following reviewer needs to stop thinking so much:  
_**Sunshinase**

_The following reviewer gets the "Praise Through All-Caps" Award:  
_**Superkid **(I LOVE YOU TOO!)

_This reviewer was caught in ff-dot-net madness and reviewed the wrong fic, I think:  
_**E.A.V. **(Thanks, anyway! Damn ff-dot-net!)

_The D/Hr interaction in this chapter is for the following die-hards:  
_**scifichick774, thatonechic, Athena Linborn, x1nfernal  
****Draco: **Aha! The only ones with any sense!  
**Author: **Shut up, ferret, I'm not done yet.

_The Rowena Ravvish story in the chapter is lovingly dedicated to:  
_**Capricorn Baby **(hope it met with your approval!)

_I am very happy to have the following reviewer as a fellow English geek:  
_**HG Wannabe**

_The following reviewer gave me a compliment that nearly brought tears to my eyes:  
_**whirleeq**

_And the following reviewers are much, much appreciated and get 10 points to the House of their choice for utter coolness (as long as it's Slytherin):  
_**Sweet Tension, mizzyfreak7, ladyx, alenchic, antisocial mint, tweetygurl88, Hannah, Redhead Ruth, Kerrie-chan, Louise, Lone Angel, the-damaged-rose, Onion Layers, Dimhalo924, **and **Fiona McKinnon**

**Author: **God, I hope I haven't forgotten anybody.  
**Draco: **_Hem, hem.  
_**Author: **What the hell do you want _now_, Malfoy?  
**Draco: **Why do you have to make me so mean?  
**Author: **Just trying to keep you in character, love.  
**Draco: **Let me get this straight.  
**Author: **(Well, that would be a first.)  
**Draco: **Potter is getting love bites and Granger is writing a romance column, but I don't get any redeeming qualities whatsoever?  
**Author: **Are you quite finished?  
**Draco: **You _know_ you want to turn this into a D/Hr fic.  
**Author: **(underlines the HG/BZ in the summary)  
**Draco: **(winks suggestively) But look at my hair! For pity's sake, look at my _body_. And don't forget my sexy smirk!  
**Author: **This is MY fic, you ARROGANT BASTARD!  
**Draco: **That's what _you_ think, bitch.

Will the author turn this into a D/Hr fic? Will Harry get a clue? What will Draco's next move be? Will Blaise and Hermione EVER shag? Stay tuned to find out...

Molt'amore a tutti,  
tamlane


End file.
